


Ash

by excelsis



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Dark, Drama, Drow, Drugs, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gen, Intersex, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 18:22:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 33
Words: 179,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16413512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/excelsis/pseuds/excelsis
Summary: Aestith Rix is the eighth child of an eighth daughter of an eighth daughter of an eighth daughter, so when he was born male he was considered to be an even greater disappointment than a male drow would ordinarily be. The Rix family hold a lot of money and land, but have not been able to secure a title. His birth was hoped to have been a long-awaited cleric who could be the driving force behind their family finally securing a place among the nobility. As a male, he could not live up to that expectation.Puberty usually brings on many changes, but for Aestith, it provided him with an endless source of terror as he began to wonder if, in a way, his family were not getting exactly what they had wanted from him.Aestith's own body seems to turn against him and becomes a curse, and later, a blessing. He believes it is his struggle and his test from Lolth. This belief is affirmed as his clerical powers grow after he escapes to the surface, but his homesickness is unbearable and he feels he must return to the Underdark."Sounds like a good way to die."Either he shall fail, and fall into obscurity, or he shall rise.





	1. Autonomous

The scream reverberated off the walls of the room and sank into the dry, smooth quartzite. Thousands of miles of earth muffled it to a dim oscillation. A spider hunched against the shallow vibrations traveling down its sensitive web.

Muscles contracted. Bone parted to allow passage. Her body split, organs shoved to one side. Her cervix dilated in teeth-clenching contractions. It was time.

Sweat glistened like oil on her dark, shaking form and matted her amber hair. The floor was wet with embryonic fluid where it had sloshed from the waiting pan below. Her perspiring fingers slipped on the soapstone birthing chair. An inferno of pain blazed inside her and cooked her from the inside. It was like being flayed alive or impaled from inside going out.

It felt more brutal than Almalza’s seven other births. Years had diminished those pains to flecks of memory, whereas this one burned alive in her belly and loins. The child within, who had kicked hard enough to crack one of her ribs while she was weakened with pregnancy, now fought against its nature-driven eviction. Her muscles worked with gravity to expel it.

Her eldest daughter knelt between her legs with a towel, ready to catch the newborn. Virabel directed her younger sisters like a priestess addressing acolytes. There had been no need of a midwife as long as Virabel had been there to witness the births of her six younger sisters.

There were no men in the house, no sons or brothers. Their mother was the youngest of eight sisters, and they fully expected an eighth daughter of her. It appealed to Almalza’s religious sensibilities that the eighth daughter should be the most difficult birth.

Amalette, her arms laden with fresh towels, all but danced into the room. She hummed wordlessly to herself; music had touched her soul long ago, and its grip was a tenacious one. 

Almalza sweat and pushed. The windows opened or closed at her whim. Cold or warm water, or a dry towel to mop up sweat. Haeltania pressed cool water to her lips. Though she tried to hide it, her nose wrinkled at the smell of birthing and her lips curled in disgust at the gruesome details of the process.

“She’s crowning!” Virabel declared. Descaronan wiped sweat from her mother’s brow with damp linen. Her expression was impassive--this was just one more battle to be won. “Make haste--more water, in a basin. Clean towels. Swaddling cloth--hurry now.” Her sisters jumped to do her bidding, except for Jaalie, barely fourteen.

She was the youngest, until now, and across her face was scrawled a novel of emotions. The prospect of a new sister filled her with excitement. Yet she felt cheated, because her childhood should be her own, not to be shared. None of her other sisters had shared so much of it, save the twins and that hardly counted--why must she? Then she thought of all her old clothes she might dress her new sister in, how she could teach her, as her sisters in turn had taught her.

The slave, practically blind in the dark, stopped in the hall. He was all but invisible to the ladies--he wouldn’t call them “young” unless he said “deceptively” first. They would need someone to take away the used towels and any waste matter, and it was almost time.

The matron of the house wailed. The cry sent a chill down his spine--it was the wrong sort of scream. It was the scream an animal made when it died in terror and pain, or of some primal horror.

Virabel barked at her sisters to get out, to give her some room--and to fetch a needle and thread. Amalette grabbed Jaalie’s arm and ushered the others out. The door slammed shut.

The four gathered sisters waited; only Desarandian evaded the tasks the other sisters assisted with, for she was wholly devoted to her forge. She should be, as she was the one who founded it. On ordinary days, no one envied her. A space in the hall was empty, as if for the nearly forgotten ghost of their older sister, now deceased.

Another scream, this one weaker. Then silence.

“Why doesn’t she cry?” Almalza gasped from a hoarse throat. She sagged weakly in the chair. From the tear on her genitals, she bled. Virabel set the bundle of flesh and blood aside and reached upward, urging her mother to push while she gently tugged the placenta free with a gooey splat. Tears borne of pain filled her mother’s grey eyes when the organ pushed through her and rubbed against the open wound.

“The infant,” the woman gasped again, clutching her deflated belly.

Virabel shook her head. “Dead.” She dropped the organ next to the stillborn in the basket.

Someone knocked at the door and Amalette entered with the bone needle and a small spool of black silk. Virabel took the tools and threaded the needle. “I’ll need some more water. And fetch some wine.” Her younger sisters scurried to obey.

While her daughters gathered around her, the slave removed the dead infant. It would be expected of him to prepare the body.

He took the bloody bundle to the kitchen to clean it. It wasn’t necessary, for a boy; they were disposable, but it made  _ him _ feel better and no one would notice anyway. He tied off and cut the cord to the placenta then tossed the dead organ into the furnace. The flames burst once and crackled. The room filled with the scent of burning meat. A person’s organs and meat smelled little different from an animal’s--which, the slave had no doubt, was what inspired a drow’s eclectic dining tastes. This was one of the many finer points he did not allow himself to think about.

He touched the tiny, unresponsive hand. It felt warm, but the babe did not scream. He searched for a pulse, for a tiny beat that meant it was alive, but could not tell if it were his own.

Cradling the head with a care that was no longer necessary, he brought it to the basin. He washed it gently, slowly. So small and helpless, he could almost pretend it wasn’t the spawn of monsters, no different than feeling sorrow for a dead lion cub really. Lukewarm water trickled up its small nose.

It snorted. Its formerly slack face wrinkled in distaste. He gasped in surprise, and nearly dropped it. A part of him thought,  _ I should drop it. The last thing the world needs is another drow elf. _ But it was a small, bitter part of him and he did not have the heart to drop an infant, no matter what kind of terror it might grow up to be.

It sniffled, then tested its new lungs with a soft yelp. It heaved a deep breath, another. Its eyes opened. Tepid grey waters on a dark, shadowed face, just like his mother and sisters. It screamed in pale imitation of its mother--at what it saw, at the noise, at the low light, hunger, pain, discomfort. At the horror of being ejected into this hostile alien earth from the safe dark, warm sea it had previously inhabited. Its loss of a connection, the cord attaching it to its parent severed. A parasite no longer, dead no longer. A kicking, screaming ball of flesh and fear. Autonomous.

It was a shout to the dark, to the world, to the gods.  _ I’m alive. _

“Shh,” he said, gently cooing to it. It sucked on his thumb.

Jaalie stood in the doorway, ashen eyes wide. “Is that my baby brother?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The city, "Enainsi", was derived from Anansi, the African spider god.


	2. Rats

The body had not been there long. The rats had not gotten to it yet. Deep in its guts, the last of its body heat cooled. It still smelled like fresh meat and blood, and not so different from slaughter time at the market. Aside from stumbling across it in the alleyway, the body was actually quite unremarkable. It wasn’t the first time Aestith had seen death. Drow lived with death as a lizard lived with its scales.  
Aestith was named after a dragon, not because his mother had particularly high hopes for him, but because the dragon Aesdondia was recently slain and it was the first thing on her mind. It was a girl’s name, though of the wrong culture--which was a passive insult. Though, being the only male in the household and the youngest after six sisters--seven if you counted the dead one--he often endured more than the careless slight of his name.  
He may have passed into a neglected obscurity, except that Jaalie thought of him as a small, interactive doll. By the time he had passed from infant to toddler, she had grown a sort of fondness for him in the way that one might covet their own possessions. His mother died in childbirth with the twins when he was eight. Almalza Rix had desperately wanted eight daughters, though it had not been the goddess’s will; the twins were fused together at the stomach, though female. Small wonder it had torn their mother open so. The twins were never returned from the priestesses’ hands.  
Aestith had overheard someone comment, once, that Almalza Rix should not have been “greedy”, and it was therefore her own fault she and her twin daughters were dead.  
When he was twelve, he discovered that they had attempted a separation of the conjoined twins, met with catastrophic failure: One died immediately and the next died a few bells later. By then, he was so detached from it that it hardly mattered to him.  
Aestith sighed and rose to his feet. He had best tell a slave to do something with the body. If left there, it would stink and attract flies. He stepped around it.  
He didn’t recognize the body, but then, why would he? Enainsi boasted around forty thousand drow elves here. It wasn’t impossible that Aestith didn’t know him.   
The corpse’s hair was gray with years, as was the way of males. Even his clothes were unremarkable--old and plain but well-kept. Could be the upper crust trying to blend in, or the burnt bottom trying to appear presentable. If there had been anything identifiable, it was long gone--yet they had left the face, frozen in painful anguish, the red of rage bleeding from his eyes like the blood from his stomach. Of course, the drow wouldn’t concern themselves with petty matters of policing and justice. The real problem was that someone had just left it there.  
Aestith wondered, Why? The man had been gutted. That wasn’t a self-defense wound, and it wasn’t an accident. It would have been quite messy and would involve a fair amount of noise if the man were conscious through it. By the expression frozen on the man’s face, he had been. Aestith stopped and looked back. Was someone practicing hepatoscopy? He turned, his thoughts on divination and tarot cards, other silly things he held no truck with, but that didn’t mean no one did. Maybe they even learned something.  
He paced around the body curiously. There were no signs of struggle, not here anyway. Could it have been dumped here? Why? He was more enticed at the mystery than the idea of murder. He nudged the dead man’s head with the toe of his boot. The head rolled like a rusted pivot. He tilted his head in dim imitation, or mockery. The body was too cold for him to see much nuance about it in the infrared spectrum. He knelt and lifted a palm, a small light dancing over his fingertips. The low light illuminated it--there on the back of his neck. He nudged the hair out of the way. A frown graced his lips. A smuggler for Innis? He glanced again at the wound and rose. The light guttered out as he dropped his palm. Territory dispute. This had been carried from somewhere else as a message, dumped where it would be found. He wondered if it came from Rix, or another syndicate.  
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, more because it was comfortable than because it was cold. He was wearing too many layers as it was. He turned from the body, satisfied at the mystery solved.  
The small, warm shape of a goblin hobbled toward him. It was pulling a cart. He relaxed. Someone had already found the body. Another lurched after it, followed by a third. They saw him, looked over the cut of his clothes that bespoke of money if not station, and moved the cart to one side, if slowly. Aestith didn’t care enough to be offended at their lack of haste; it simply wasn’t worth the effort of feeling an emotion. That sort of thing mattered to his sisters--Aestith privately thought they could be over-sensitive.  
The city bell sounded, a deep, resonant chime, singular to signify that twenty-four candlemarks had passed. He looked up automatically, but he wouldn’t be able to see the huge waterclock from the alley, dripping slowly at one drop per second until the bell chimed, then the water would slosh and wait for the next to be filled. When seven were full, the wheel would turn and complete a “turn”. Those were counted in turn to “cycles”, which composed the seasons and thus years. He had used to like to watch it as a child. He could just barely see it turn from the roof of his family home, which was accessible to an adventurous if foolhardy child.  
A fourth goblin, this one hunched and sitting at the mouth of the alley, called, “Drow elf.” Its voice grated over his ears like gravel.  
His gaze flicked toward it. He wondered what could have possibly inspired it to draw attention to itself. Amused, he stilled.  
It seemed to creak when it moved, old bones and overgrown scales rubbing against one another. The slave motioned with crooked fingers then gestured to the carved stone tiles. “Spit. Goblin read fortune.”  
He almost laughed. “Does anyone actually do that?”  
It didn’t seem to have heard him. It continued, “Your fortune cloudy. More clear with spit.”  
He tilted his head. “What?”  
“Need spit. Clear,” it insisted. It gestured. “Is hiding in layers.”  
The blood drained from his face and his chest tightened. It was an effort to keep from running the rest of the way home.  
#  
Jaalie strolled down the hall, calling “Aestith” as if she were calling some beast of burden. Her heels clicked on the diamond-patterned mosaic on the floor. Above, a pattern of webs arched over the ceiling. Flecks of mica gave them movement, made them glisten and catch the light from the luminescent lichen that lent the carvings of water currents the illusion of flowing. It was Amalette’s work, part of some remodel dozens of years ago. Haeltania had commented, She was going through a phase. She said the last syllable as if it were an unexpectedly sour taste on her tongue.  
Aestith and Jaalie were the only two still with milk names, and nearly of an age as far as elves were concerned, which was rare enough to occasionally raise an eyebrow or give some weight to the rumors about Almalza’s “wild orgies”. More rare, they actually shared the same patron father. Aestith had never met the man, but apparently, Almalza had favored him until Aestith’s birth, and his mother had been so infuriated to have a boy that she had probably had him killed. Most likely violently. At the least, Kyandan was never seen again.  
Aestith half-fell out of the alcove he had been trying to sleep in with a groan. True sleep was getting more difficult as he aged--something Jaalie had politely informed him was completely normal, and “sleeping was infantile”. He knuckled one eye, striding toward her. “Yes, sister?”  
She grinned. “That’s where you’ve hidden yourself?” She inclined her head. “Must you sleep so often?”  
Aestith was under the inclination that he was actually less likely to be killed in his sleep. For one, it was difficult to offend someone from a comatose poise and most other men he encountered interpreted a sleepy, doe-eyed youth as so non-threatening as to be ignored rather than viewed as a potential rival. For two, his sisters most likely to murder him for perceived misgivings held a strong belief that if you’re going to kill a family member, you need to see their eyes first--and his were often firmly shut. And the third reason, he would rather die in his sleep.  
He kept his head appropriately down when addressing any woman, but with Jaalie, he kept his head more away than down, staring over her right shoulder to some patch of air behind her. She actually preferred to see his face. It wasn’t, for her part, familiarity or fondness exactly; she was good at reading faces so preferred to actually see them. Aestith preferred to watch a person’s hands, or their feet--either could foretell the other’s actions, and betray their mood.  
“Sorry,” he apologized automatically. He must have said it a dozen times a bell--I’m sorry. Over and over. I’m sorry for existing. I apologize that I’m an inconvenience. I’m sorry. He gave a lopsided grin. “But if I don’t regularly cocoon myself, how might I turn into a moth?”  
“You’re fucking weird, Aestith,” she mused.   
That, too, was part of the game to him--not the game consisting of blood and daggers and social status, but his game primarily concerned with staying alive. Be non-threatening. Be invisible. Let no one take you seriously. He had seen what happened when someone was taken too seriously and too visibly.   
He quirked an eyebrow. “‘Weird’, eh? I usually just refer to it as my left hand.”  
It had the desired effect; she snorted a short laugh. “Ah, hell, Aes.” She straightened with a toss of her head. “I meant to say, come with me to the market.”  
You mean you want a bodyguard. Someone who would die for you if needed, who you trusted indefinitely. And he would die for Jaalie. Worse, she knew it. He made a face anyway, as if the thought of being drug to the market caused him physical pain, then his slender shoulders sagged dramatically in defeat. He took a breath for another flippant remark, then stilled at the sound of heels strutting down the hall. He stepped to one side. Jaalie stepped with him, but she moved as if she had simply lost interest in being in the middle of the hall.  
Haeltania passed them. He could joke with Jaalie to little repercussion, but Haeltania would interpret it as insubordination. Haeltania wasn’t likely to kill him outright--that would leave a body and he might piss and shit himself when he died, but she may do other things. There were things worse than death, and Haeltania kept many of them in small jars.  
Yet silence was suspicious. He said instead, “Something of interest at the market?”  
Haeltania stopped. “You’re going out?”  
Aestith looked down. Jaalie turned toward her elder sister with a smile so sweet Aestith could feel his teeth rot from where he stood. Jaalie idly twisted a finger in one long red-blonde curl. “Yes. I fear if I let these atrocious roots grow in any longer, I’ll lose my mind.”  
Haeltania’s painted lips pulled in a sneer. Aestith thought, but would never say aloud, that Haeltania was absurdly jealous of Jaalie’s curls; Haeltania would spend hours curling her long hair, and Jaalie’s did it naturally, like Aestith’s. “Of course.” She continued down the hall.  
Jaalie turned toward Aestith. He watched Haeltania disappear down a twist in the hall. Her shadow did not. His eyes flicked back toward Jaalie. He signed, She’s listening. “Oh?” his voice took on a faint teasing note. “We’re going all the way into the market for your hair?”  
She tossed her head of pale red curls. The strawberry blonde made her recognizable, and people remembered her. It also meant that if she didn’t want to be recognizable, covering the red with a wig or white ash suddenly made her invisible. Everyone else just thought she was silly. “Are you implying that everything isn’t about my hair?” She signed, I need you to do something.  
He groaned aloud. “Of course it is. Anything less is a tragedy.”  
“One candlemark--and wash yourself up.” Pickpocket Namika Walerin.  
An Innis family handmaid? The Innis family were barely even competing with Rix. Why would they be so bold? It was like attacking archers with slings. He groaned internally, but he smiled pleasantly. “Anything you say, Jaalie.” He paused. Nobles kept their children under lock and key until they could defend themselves as adults; commoners had a more free-range perspective as they lacked the luxuries this sort of upbringing required, but sometimes his sisters didn’t like the idea of him, at a mere 14, leaving the house on his own. “I already mentioned it to Amalette, but I discovered a gutted Innis runner, about a quarter mark to the last bell.”  
She raised an eyebrow. Lips pulled into a faint smirk. “Did you now?” she asked, wide-eyed and innocent. “Well, what a turn of misfortune for them.”  
She walked past him in a rolling gait a book could balance on. She had spent a half-year learning how to walk without bobbing up and down, because she got it into her head that it was more poised and dignified; she wasn’t wrong. It was also, she said, easier to shoot a target if she walked smoothly.  
He darted off to the kitchen, yawning. The cook, a relatively fat foreign slave, chopped vegetables. Virabel said you can’t trust a skinny cook. The human was expensive, and highly prized.  
“Aestith--thought you sleep now,” the cook said in his broken accent. He’d likely never get a complete grip on the language. The cook had not known any Common before he had been captured.  
The bread smelled baked. Aestith went to the oven by the wide door. He pulled the oven door open, the heat washing over him to expel from the ajar door to the garden. He picked up the tray and the cook flinched to watch him do it without a rag. He turned and set the hot tray down on a towel. He shouldered the door closed, drawing the lock back in place. He swiped a bead of sweat from his pimpled brow. His fingertips were warm, but not burned--he had burned them so many times, he had more or less lost feeling in them. He helped assemble the meal, placing it on the service trolley. He took the trays to each of his sisters in the dining room, serving Virabel first, and down the line. He left the women and took the trolley back to the kitchen, trying to fight a yawn.  
He took one of the last buns and slipped out the kitchen door into the yard--he wasn’t allowed to come and go through the front without an escort anyway, but he liked the lichen garden.   
He wandered to the wall and glanced back at the house. No faces lingered near the windows, so he gripped the old stone. Bare feet scrambled over the stone, finding purchase in small divets and worn shelves. He heaved himself over the side and dropped, landing on all fours. He whistled once, then waited, crouched in the shadow of the inane statues. The gravel crunched under callused feet, a shadow fell and Aestith scooted over for Nier.  
Sweat streaked the other boy’s skin and his hands shook, but he pulled the book from his tunic, glancing back at his own house. His voice was dry and raspy as he spoke, “I think I found it.” Aestith leaned over the book as Nier thumbed through the vellum pages. He stopped and tapped the page. “Here.”  
Aestith looked at the diagram, then thumbed to a different page to study a woodcut. He flipped to another, biting his lower lip thoughtfully. “Is it really…”  
Nier stared at him. “I don’t know. I’ve just seen drawings.” He made a face. “Can’t you ask Jaalie?”  
Aestith paled at the thought. He shook his head, what was left of his oleaginous curls bouncing. “No.” He swallowed. What would she say or do? Would she view him as a threat, or a freak? Telling Nier had been a risk, but the scholarly family had a library Aestith would have given a testicle just to see.  
“If the goddess saw fit to give you this gift, shouldn’t you be proud of it?”  
Nier would never last, Aestith realized. He’d die. Strong, but naive. Too logical. He had no grasp of family politics or social status. Nier had fewer siblings though, so maybe it just wouldn’t occur to him.  
Aestith didn’t know if it were a gift, or a curse. It felt like a curse. He was scared, every bell, that someone would find out. He was scared when he bathed and dressed, bundling in layers to hide himself. He wore too much, and he worried that someone would notice the way he dressed, or that he sweat yet did not remove a layer. He had thought, initially, that he was only gaining weight, eating too much or something. Wrong, dead wrong.  
“I have to go,” Nier said, snatching the book back. He started to rise, then Aestith gripped his arm, pulling him back down. Aestith’s lips fastened to his--hot, desperate. Nier’s lips yielded only a little, his response slow and clumsy, distracted. Aestith pulled away and fought a sigh. Nier’s lips twisted and he muttered an apology before he dashed back down the street.  
Aestith waited half a minute, then scrambled back over the garden wall. In his sparse room, he checked that he was alone, then locked the door. He pulled the basin close to the closet and half-hid inside it before he stripped off the layers of clothes. His chest was tender. It ached to the touch when he washed it, stifling a wave of self-disgust. Why would his body do this to him?  
You can be betrayed by friends or family or your own people, but no one expects to be betrayed by their own body. The hole he could live with, almost. It wasn’t noticeable and relatively easy to hide; it was just a small hole that fit neatly behind his balls. It had originally been closed over with a thin layer of skin. A couple years ago, he had found that there seemed to be a hollow there and if he pushed against it, he could dig his fingers in a bit--which improved his self-attentions. He had broken the skin. It split and repeated poking at it and examining himself with a small brass mirror “borrowed” from Jaalie’s dresser (and promptly returned) proved not only had it bled only a little and hadn’t even hurt, there was a hollow there. He hadn’t known what it was, but he couldn’t think of a way to explain himself to his sisters, so had instead opted to ignore it. Hiding that had been relatively easy.  
This new thing was more difficult. He cupped the small breasts, pushing them flat as if it could make them sink back into his chest, but the fat and muscle would only compress so much. For how long could he hide this?  
He needed a long-term plan, but how? Descaronan wrapped her breasts with strips of fabric to bind them to herself, to keep from getting smacked in the face with them when she ran. Enviousness no doubt, Haeltania had snidely remarked to Amalette where Aestith overheard, She practically has udders. Amalette had snickered.  
That was what Aestith did, but for different reasons.  
Aestith’s sisters had raised him, for Almalza certainly wanted nothing to do with him. If she saw him at all, it was to either beat him or she would ignore him--the latter was worse; he was used to the beatings. A lashing meant they had not forgotten him, so he often had to act out so that one of his sisters would remember that he existed. It was so much worse when they forgot. When he got a bit older, though, he avoided crossing them, not to avoid the lash, per se, but to avoid his own embarrassment. He liked the way the pain felt. He touched the scar along his left breast, curved under it. He had even come at the last cut, when the pain was exquisite and ecstatic, his world going white-hot with agony and blood. He hadn’t tried the pointless exercise of cutting them off again. Open wounds could draw unwanted attention.  
When he washed, he bound them, then layered on clothes until the bumps were hardly noticeable.  
What the hell was wrong with him that this was happening? Or was something right? If he were turning into a woman somehow, why weren’t the lesser set of genitals disappearing?   
He didn’t know what to do. Was he caught somewhere between a man and a woman? What did that mean? The deformed at birth were killed. He didn’t know if this was truly the way he were born or not, but he knew it was something that could get him killed. Had some sorcerer cursed him, thought it might be funny? It couldn’t be from birth; his family, his mother, his sisters, had all seen him naked as a child, so surely at least one of them would have noticed if something were not right. Had he truly evaded seven pairs of eyes his whole life? Eight, he amended, for he had to count himself in that number too.  
He met Jaalie in the foyer. Her lips pulled into a dissatisfied frown, but she wasn’t looking at him. She glanced up at his approach. “We must go talk to one of our caravan drivers.” She sighed. “Apparently, raiders have been swarming about them like flies on shit.” She spun one finger in the air disdainfully, in vague mimicry of a fly buzzing.  
He followed her out the door. “Doesn’t Virabel usually see to that kind of thing?”  
She tilted her head. “Yes, but since we’re happening by, might as well. Let’s do that first.”  
He consented to this, both because he didn’t really have much of an option and because it hardly mattered. Be non-threatening, be invisible, and above all, be useful.  
“So long as I’m back in time to make pie,” he mused.  
She brightened. “Oh, what sort?”  
He raised an eyebrow. “Cottage pie. I need to use some of the leftovers in the kitchen.”  
“I really don’t know how you do it, Aestith. I’d be useless in a kitchen.”  
He nodded dimly, following her out the door. All you had to do was follow directions. There was a recipe book in the library, and no one had expressly told him not to read it, so he had read it. Still, he considered it just as well that his sisters considered domestic duties to be far below their station; it made him useful. Most of the men and boys he knew bought into the, frankly short-sighted, social paradigm that you had to be useful militarily to be considered of worth. He saw no reason he couldn’t have a secondary skill or two, in the event of horrifying disfigurement. Those skills should be something everyone can approve of--and cooking and baking came with a simple set of directions.  
Jaalie had once told him that he had been born dead. He had no desire to experience death a second time and planned to put that off for as long as possible.  
He stayed close behind Jaalie on the way to the office, keeping his head down. No reason to ever stand out, to ever be noticed. He did as much as he could to wear nothing that could catch the eye, to appear as normal as possible. The fact was, he looked ordinary, if it were only his face. He looked properly his age with spotty skin and greasy hair, not particularly masculine but not erring to feminine either and wholly so unremarkable that even Nier told him that how attractive he looked entirely depended on Aestith’s facial expression. People tended to forget what he looked like. His sisters only recognized him because they had seen him grow into the forgettable face. If only his body would follow suit!  
Eyes went over him as if he weren’t there. Even other men, always alert for potential threats to their station, glossed over him. People recognized Jaalie, but not her curious tagalong who had seam ripped and butchered any clothing he had so not even that was worth noticing. He wished that there was a standard uniform he could wear, just to look more basic.  
He told himself that, in theory, when he was finished with training in a few dozen years, there would be, more or less, a standard military outfit, in the form of armor or a robe. The trouble was, he didn’t think he would survive after the reward of graduation. Someone with higher designs than Nier would, ultimately, see him naked. The academies had dormitories--how under the earth might he hide? Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. His throat suddenly felt dry. He had only a handful of years to think of a plan.  
Cut them off. Sew it up. Couldn’t hurt that bad. Had to be better than dying.  
Run?  
Suicide, he mused. Always an option. He liked to keep his options open, and there were so many possibilities with suicide. Trouble was, he wanted to live, but if he had to die, he’d prefer it if it were entirely on his terms.  
A short drop and a sudden stop? Drugs? Swallowing anything in one of the bottles in Haeltania’s room would kill him. And if it didn’t, she certainly would after hearing that he swallowed something of hers. He had tried the passive suicide of starvation before, but after about two turns of it, he had had hallucinations and someone noticed. Being noticed was worse; that person could remember him.  
He scratched at one of the small scabs on his arm. Well, if he just cut down lower and deeper next time with the razor, maybe that would do it. He made a face. No, use a knife, you idiot.  
But that still left the problem of dying. He didn’t want to die, not really. It just seemed preferable to sacrifice. If he could just choose how and when, that gave him some modicum of power over his life. It was like when he carved out scars in his arm; it was just something small he had a choice over. Or when he didn’t eat. Or when he kissed Nier.  
The thought nearly warmed him, then, They’d kill me for that too.  
If he wasn’t useful for his seed, he wasn’t useful for much at all. Die or run, Aestith--what’ll it be?  
He didn’t like the idea of running either; it felt cowardly--anyway, you can only run so far from your problems when your main problem is yourself.   
That left bodily mutilation.  
“Aestith?”  
He lifted his head. “Hm?”  
“You had a funny expression on your face.”  
He quirked an eyebrow. “I usually do.”  
Her lips split in a sardonic grin. “You think yourself so humorous.”  
He smirked, then someone passed and he looked back down. She stepped into the stone building. Everything was stone. Stone or marble, sometimes clay bricks. He had seen wood once or twice in architecture--expensive imported stuff that tended toward rot and burned easily.  
He shadowed Jaalie. She stopped at the clerk’s soapstone desk, then was pointed to another room. She signed, Books.  
He broke from her and went up the stairs to see their bookkeeper, Quin. Aestith had met him once or twice before. The man seemed to think that the world should--and, more importantly could--be organized into neat little numbers and figures, reducing the struggle of life to nothing more than a little tick mark in a box or an innocuous number in a ledger.  
Quin sat at a desk with an expression as if the abacus he used was an instrument of torture. Without looking up, he said, “You can’t come in here.”  
Aestith stilled. “May I borrow the most recent account ledger, then? Jaalie requested that I am to review it while we’re here.”  
His head rose slowly. Quin searched Aestith’s face for a memory of who he was, then hesitated. Quin didn’t recognize him, but he had mentioned Jaalie. Disappointing the Rix family never went well for their workers. The clerk said, as if Aestith were already ripping out fingernails, “There.” He pointed. Aestith lifted the book from the top of the file cabinet and hurried out of his office before the clerk changed his mind. Aestith plopped down on a bench just outside it, tallying sums in his head, looking for discrepancies, particularly with the caravan Dark Carnival.  
On the floor below the balcony, Jaalie walked with the caravan driver and disappeared around a corner. He flipped a page, then looked up when she rounded the corner again. He waited another half minute, then closed the book and slipped it back in the office. He hurried down the stairs and met her at the door.  
They walked outside. “And?” she said.  
He frowned, then looked around the street. He whispered, “They only report losses when Virabel oversees the route.” He had found similar patterns amidst the other attacked caravans.  
“Virabel?” she said with a jerk of her head. Both looked quickly around, then she frowned. “Thus far, they have yet to make any real connections. The suspicion is merely that it’s bandits and nothing more.”  
His brow wrinkled. They were Virabel’s trade routes, but it wasn’t the same road. Bad luck? “We’ll give it some thought.”  
They walked mostly in silence to the market, where he slipped away to hunt down his quarry. Pickpocketing the handmaid was actually fairly easy--too easy; it worried him.  
He slipped away to a quiet corner, hidden from view, to open the letter. He scanned the words on the page, then cursed. It was a damned cypher. He raked his hand through his hair. Shit.  
If he were to look only at the format, though, it was a bulleted list and a longer series of what might be instructions, like a recipe.  
Gibberish. It’s Sylvan gibberish. Most of these weren’t words, or if they were, they were so badly misspelled that they weren’t. He didn’t have time to copy it and he still had to reseal the letter.  
He looked at the numbers again. He went through recipes in his head, trying to match the amounts. It was a recipe for bread. Bread--did that mean something? The grain shipments.  
Virabel was trading drugs, poison, and some minor smithwork for various surface foods. Shame the surface was such a vile place--it seemed to have more varied produce, not to mention the grains.  
Something about the words…  
The misspellings. They weren’t in Sylvan. If he translated the words and letters to Common, the misspellings spelled out a date, and if you were generous, a location but written in nautical terms--which was something he knew about because Amalette had read him a book with some pirate or other in it while he brushed her hair when he was younger. He would have to look up what it meant, but perhaps Quin was right about something--the marrow of the world could indeed boil down to a broth of numbers.  
Heart pounding, he resealed the letter with a basic fire spell to melt the wax--wizardry had to be good for something--then blew on it to cool it. He went back into the market and slipped the “recipe” back into her bag. That one was more difficult.  
He spied Jaalie poking around in a market stall. She stepped into the building. He wandered inside, where he was mostly ignored. He walked to her, tapped her once on the wrist, then started out. The oil lanterns in the shop, to illuminate the colors, gave him headaches, but he was used to the lighting; he spent so much time reading. Wearing color was an opulent display of wealth. It meant you could afford to have lights to see it and that you didn’t care about being temporarily dark-blind if you stepped away from it, to say nothing of the cost of imported dyes and textiles.  
“Wait--what do you think?”  
He turned back. He swore Jaalie was half color-blind. He started to raise his hand to point, then his eyes slid slowly toward the shopkeeper. “Neither. The blue one would match one of your gowns, but you already possess a matching piece at home--and the other is glass. It must have been placed there by mistake.” His lip curled into a partial sneer, for the watching shopkeep’s benefit.  
She started to look at the shopkeep. He stepped carefully into her line of vision, his back to the man. He signed, Something is going on.  
“Oh, you’re right of course. I love the color, but I probably have far too much of it.” She set down both pieces, in the wrong place. They moved away, but not out the door. He had a personal investment in keeping Jaalie alive; not only did he like Jaalie, she was the only one out of his six sisters who didn’t view him entirely as disposable. He held no illusions that she wouldn’t throw him under the carriage if it were deemed necessary, but she might at least look for an alternative first. You took what you get.  
He mouthed, Distract. She tilted her head. He backed up a pace. She looked at a necklace in a display case. “It looks awfully heavy.”  
“Glass usually is,” he mused.  
The shopkeep bristled. “The shine you mistake for glass is simply a high polish. Dwarves are particularly keen—”  
The shopkeep stepped beside her with a set of keys. Aestith scanned the room and stepped back, carefully, toward the counter. To get behind it, he would have to go past the swing gate, so he leaned against it, waited, then stretched an arm back. A finger brushed a drawer. He twisted the skeleton key, carefully in time to Jaalie’s objections. The case opened and he pulled back the drawer.  
It would be extremely unlikely that the shopkeep kept anything nasty in the drawer, but drow didn’t live long by being naive. He swiped a penknife from the counter and stuck it in the drawer, carefully prodding the interior, then put his hand down. It alighted on something smooth and leather. He found the edge--pages of thin vellum. Carefully, he slid the book partway out. Jaalie was looking over the diamonds critically. The shopkeep had his back to him, but there were mirrors of polished brass all over the shop.  
He glanced back at his hand. The book was plain--it would be too easy to keep a family crest on it. He flipped it open with a thumb. Written in a neat, careful hand--the chart of accounts. Not even a recent page, but he didn’t need recent.  
House Velweb counted for half the transactions. All of which were quite high.  
Velweb. He closed the book and slid it back in the drawer. He cleared his throat and Jaalie stilled, but only briefly. She looked at herself in the small offered silver mirror, frowning, then quickly changed her mind and set the mirror down. The shopkeep insisted on removing the necklace, delicately, from her throat. Jaalie tapped her heel, like Amalette.   
Someone in their family was social climbing.  
Who?  
Virabel embezzling from the family business was too obvious, and too stupid considering that she was the head of the household. More likely, someone was trying to undermine her, or frame her. Who was cunning enough for that, but not cunning enough to keep from leaving tracks?  
It wasn’t necessarily a family member either. It could be another family who thought they were too powerful, or it could be a lower family who thought they had something to gain by sabotaging them. Well, Rix had any number of enemies or people they had crossed. The lesser cartel families might want a bigger piece of the pie--that would be the Velweb connection, though he didn’t think that this particular strand necessarily led back to the current tapestry they were unraveling. It was unlikely noble involvement; the nobles had been snubbing the Rix for years, refusing to allow them in despite any accumulated wealth or that they were the main body of power in drugs and smuggling operations. It was an exclusive party.  
What do I know about Velweb? Hours of memorizing family crests, estates, and names flashed by his memory. He settled on the blue on red of Velweb. Blood vessels and blood. Names. Faces. Family traits. Family business--slave trade. Of course they patronized a jewelry shop. Where the owner kept watching Jaalie.  
Maybe he was wrong and it was something else.  
No matter what was going on, the important matter was--how can this work to advantage? Find out who benefits, and I have a suspect.  
On the walk back, he told Jaalie what he had read, in carefully worded fragments she pieced together.  
“Let’s go,” she said quietly when he told her the last piece. She turned and led him down the path to the mushroom grove. The first section was functional but decorative, the mushrooms being equal parts for show with carefully cultivated patches that were actually for eating. Slaves tended the patches. Sometimes, Aestith would even come out himself to pick choice mushrooms. The next section boasted a decorated stone partition wall, more to keep the poisonous variety away from the edible sort. Haeltania often spent time here, in a mask. The tending slaves wore cloth masks over their noses and mouths, moving slowly and with care lest they trigger a vaporous cloud. The siblings stayed to the path.  
The drow male, having spied the pair steadily making their way there, had the gate to the inner section unlocked by the time they arrived. He opened it for them wordlessly. Jaalie walked past and Aestith followed her.   
The inner circle of the garden was well-guarded and patrolled at regular intervals. The tending slaves wore no protective garb, but were nonetheless closely watched, for this was the source of the family wealth--not in clerics or magic, nor gems or metals, but a simple mushroom. This was what was dried, distilled, and smuggled to the surface and other places in the Underdark, along with vials of poisons, drinks, and whatever Desarandia could bear to part with from the forge. Fresh, the mushrooms produced a most effective toxin but when dried or smoked with the right ingredients or distilled like essential oil, then consumed, gave an individual a marvelous hallucinatory experience that was both brief and highly addictive yet rarely deadly--allegedly. Aestith had never sampled one; Virabel said that only fools consumed their own stock. Even if it weren’t for Virabel, he feared his actions under such an influence. If he were going to eat one, it would be so he wouldn’t feel pain while he died.  
The surface world was too bright and too far from the Underdark radiation for the mushrooms to thrive, so they did not fear a surface supplier emerging, as it were. Tragically, all the other Enainsi suppliers had met with most unfortunate accidents some time ago and the subsequent mushroom was cultivated to perfection since.  
Aestith had had to memorize all of the cultivation, curing, and distilling process, because he so often came down to perform the task himself or to supervise it. Jaalie again kept to the path and slaves hastily scurried from her presence. Even the ones in the grove skittered away--which was unusual. They knew something.  
Jaalie picked her way along the straight, unwinding path to the smokehouse. A drow guard opened the door for her. She stopped. “He’s inside?”  
“Yes, my lady,” he answered, head down.  
She nodded and Aestith followed her in. The skin crawled on the back of his neck. There was only one reason for this. His lips pulled into a sneer. “Someone was stealing from our stores?” he inquired.  
She snorted a laugh. “If you don’t learn to pay attention, you’ll find your end at a knifepoint, Aestith.”  
He made a face. Guards lined the walls, watching the slaves at the ovens, and more closely watching the ones with the small knives cutting mushrooms at the tables. At the far end, another slave carefully monitored the glass distilling instruments. It had to be glass, Haeltania had told him, because glass had no scent and left no taste; it produced a higher quality of the drug. Additionally, the liquid form was more potent, and carried less risk of someone harvesting spores. That one was usually sold in the Underdark.  
The room boasted a mere two doors. One would lead to the smokehouse, and the other the storage. They went to the storage door and a guard opened it for them.  
Slaves boxed and sorted stone jars and thin kid leather packets. They stilled as the siblings passed. A guard lifted a trapdoor and led them down the steps. Aestith’s breath frosted in the cellar air. Dimly glowing runes marked the spell used to keep the room cool. Alchemical reagents lined the walls in jars and vials. Some of them moved.  
Ancient bloodstains marred the floor. From the ceiling, a heavy chain stretched taught. From it dangled a naked male drow, the tips of his toes scarcely able to touch the floor. Cuffed from behind, the manacles were attached to the chain, which could be lowered or raised by a wheel on the wall. It could take nearly a turn to die from the slow strangulation such a posture produced. It must have been Amalette’s doing; she preferred torture by a thousand discomforts and using the body against itself. Though she must have been hasty about it, because usually she treated it like an artistic piece.  
“Caught thieving.” She smirked. “Not very good at it though.”  
“Could he have already moved one somewhere?” Aestith inquired.  
She shook her head. “Unlikely. It would only take one or two.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why risk getting more, unless you are either very reckless, or stupid enough to botch the first batch?”  
“Or greedy and impatient.” He frowned and glanced at the guard. “Well?”  
The male straightened. “We searched his quarters. He was packed, we speculate that he had prepared to leave with the product last bell.”  
Jaalie looked at the hanging male. “Caught like a fly in a web,” she mused. She glanced at Aestith. “Satisfied?”  
“Who is he?”  
Jaalie shrugged one shoulder, as if it didn’t matter. “Some no-name.”  
His eyes narrowed and he looked at the guard, who answered, “Dacec Naarisshi.”  
Aestith, for the life of him, couldn’t remember the house. “Merchant class?” he hazarded.  
The guard shook his head and might have spat if not for Jaalie’s presence. “Little higher than a slave.”  
“Did you question his family?”  
Jaalie shrugged. “They seem to all be dead.” She clarified, “We were unable to find anyone by that name.”  
“Did it ever exist?” He pinched the bridge of his nose in thought. That was the problem with drow politics--you kill a family and they stopped existing in history. It made it impossible to keep accurate logs of who actually did exist, or ever had. He looked at the alleged Dacec Naarisshi and frowned. He went to the wall and cranked it, slowly. Link by link, the chain slackened until the male’s feet touched the floor. He heaved deep gulps of air, gasping with relief. His arms still strained above his head, numb with the blood drained from them. He looked wearily at Aestith. Aestith smiled. “Dacec is your real name, I trust?”  
The male nodded, his lips pressed firmly shut.  
“How long have you worked for us?”  
The question was met with silence.  
Aestith gestured at the wall. “I think Dacec has a bit too much slack on the chain.”  
“No!”  
The guard stopped. Aestith raised an eyebrow. Jaalie smirked, leaning against a desk. His eyes shifted toward her. Yes, this is why she brought me. As much for Dacec as to test what I’ve learned. “Oh? Something you care to divulge?”  
His mouth snapped shut again.  
Aestith leaned forward and fished his knife from his boot. “How much more painful will it be, I wonder, to hang there after I’ve cut off a toe? Try balancing on a bleeding stub, Dacec.”  
The male looked from the knife, to the chain. Aestith watched the male weighing his options, then he lowered his head. “Two years.”  
Aestith smiled. “Do you see what we do to those who try to steal it to eat it?”  
The male swallowed.  
“So what possessed you to try to steal it to grow it?”  
Silence.  
“Money, I wager.” He sighed. “If you were working for a family, now is the time to tell me. I’m going to cut something off otherwise.”  
The male eyed the knife; he knew it wasn’t a bluff, but he said nothing anyway. He knew drow ways--he wasn’t getting away and it would be painful no matter what he might do. Aestith gestured the guard. The other male held the bound one still. Aestith took his knife. The boot knife was more an instrument for stabbing and cutting than flaying. It was messy and he sometimes cut too deeply or too shallowly. The cut was jagged and the skin didn’t peel as cleanly as it would have otherwise. The man screamed and thrashed. One strip of skin dangled from his toe. Aestith’s eyes flicked up at him.  
The male whimpered. Jaalie sneered. Aestith tapped the knife against the exposed muscle. “I can cut it off. Tell me who you’re working for, and I’ll cut it off,” he said gently.  
The man sobbed. Aestith moved to make another cut and he wailed.   
“No! Just…” He stilled.  
Aestith’s shoulders sagged. This was pitiful. He glanced at Jaalie, then back at him. “No one was even paying you? Do you know much money Innis or Evafarra would pay for one of these?” He rubbed a temple with his free hand.  
Jaalie shook her head. “Aestith, killing him is at the cusp of charity. Someone this stupid should be grateful to end it.”  
Sighing, he rose and flicked the knife downward. It cut into the man’s exposed stomach. His skin put up some resistance to the sharp blade, but it split to the rib cage. Aestith stepped to the side to avoid the blood and viscera spilling from the wound.  
He walked away and cleaned the blade absently on a cloth and washed his hands in a basin. They left the man screaming behind them.  
“How do your lessons progress?” Jaalie said as they made their way through the building.  
Aestith shrugged. “I’ve accepted that I’ll never be remarkable with a blade.”  
“Try a bow,” she suggested.  
“I’m all right with a crossbow.” He made a face. “Though I do think I’ll study sorcery.” They passed into the garden.  
“You’re fair at it, are you not?”  
He smirked. “Decent. And I shall only improve.”  
She nodded. “We could use that.” She paused and lowered her voice, “Just over a turn. Eight bells, Aestith. Be ready.” She lifted her head. “And now, I’ve our guards to cajole.” She parted with him at the gate.  
When he made his way through the side door into the house, the sight of Descaronan’s spear in the armory drove him to hide in the kitchen. Descaronan spent long excursions hunting and came back rarely when he was actually at home, but he held no doubt whatsoever that if she knew about him, she’d kill him.  
He swallowed, staring down at the bread dough.   
So would, probably, all of his other sisters--maybe even Jaalie. Why was this happening?  
He raised his hands to rub his temples, realized they were covered in dough, and stopped. He set his hand down.  
Why was this bad?  
Because if he metamorphosed into a woman, even a body shape resembling the feminine, he would be viewed as a threat. Why? He wouldn’t technically be female.  
But it might be close enough by society’s standards.  
What if he were viewed as blessed by the goddess?  
He threw the dough into a greased bowl and set it aside. He grabbed the other mound of dough and slapped it down on the floured surface.  
The more he thought about it seriously, how could it be a curse? Males were practically useless. If the goddess thought him worthy enough to change his shape, didn’t that mean he had some form of value to her?  
Was he looking at this the wrong way? Like the flood banks near the farms, leaving behind rich silt? It looked like a curse, but it was a blessing?  
He had to know--but how?  
He had to commune with the deity. He stared at the door. Not the house shrine. He barely visited it. He—  
How arrogant. How could he think he had been blessed? He believed, but there were atheists more passionate about their lack of belief than he had in his belief. He went through all the motions, because it was expected and normal, but he inwardly thought that was utterly exhausting.  
You had to have at least a modicum of belief when the numerous gods could literally talk and interact with their followers, when sacrifices actually did something. His faith was based on seeing real, tangible results. But he wasn’t the target market. He was just a byproduct, useful for reproduction or meat for the grinder--all of which was perfectly logical and sensible.  
No, he couldn’t be blessed.  
It was an accident of fate, some grave error that his sisters and everyone who might ever find out would correct. He couldn’t go to the goddess, out of shame.  
So that left what? Hiding until he couldn’t?  
I don’t want to die.  
He had never been more certain of anything in his life than that he wanted to keep living it. He needed a solution. Something that didn’t involve cowardice if he could help it.  
The door to the courtyard opened. Aestith lifted his head, then attacked the dough with renewed vigor. The slave bustled past. He kept a low lantern on his belt.  
The human man unloaded lumps of coal for the stove from a wheelbarrow, then closed the lid to fetch the rest. He filled it with the second load then washed his hands, muttering something in his native tongue. Aestith pieced together bits of it, then said, “What are you talking about?”  
The man turned toward him and said, in his broken Common dialect, “Trees. Make better fuel than coal.” He gestured. “Burns better, flavors the food. Variety of heat and burn time. Would make better bread.”  
Aestith snorted. “Imported and expensive.”  
“You try it. You’d never want another fuel.”  
Aestith shook his head. He had seen drawings and paintings of trees before, but he had trouble in actually believing in them. He had seen wheat, but mostly they got flour imported from the surface farms. He had never seen a surface plant actually growing--nor did he have any desire to. Even stories about the sky and the air there gave him chills. “And they just… grow. Like lichen.”  
“Bigger.”  
He smiled, because it sounded insane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note about Enainsi timekeeping:
> 
> Hour = 1 candlemark
> 
> Day: bell
> 
> Week: turn
> 
> Month: 1 cycle
> 
> Season: season, per lichen and mushroom growth and predictable animal birth rates
> 
> Year: measured against tides


	3. Rats

The neighbor kid had found a rat. They weren’t uncommon around here, and in the slave pens, they ate them. If she had just killed the creature, it would not have distressed Nier so.

“We must do something,” Nier pleaded.

_ You _ , _ he means you. You have to do something. _ Aestith said, “What?”

The young girl laughed. It was an awful, squeaking sound as if to mimic the tormented rat.

The rat screamed. Nier’s eyes squeezed shut. “It’s the sound,” he whispered.

“Then walk quickly,” Aestith advised.

The animal shrieked. Nier jumped as if struck.

It irritated him. Not just the girl, but Nier’s attitude about it.

The door opened. His stomach tightened. A tired-looking woman stepped outside. She looked from her daughter to the cage and back, mouthed “not again” and swept over to her. She wrenched the cage from the girl’s tiny hands. The girl opened her mouth to scream but the mother’s other hand clamped over it. The woman threw the cage into the street. The rat jerked and twitched, then shot from the open cage. She lifted her daughter like a burdensome doll.

The girl pointed at Aestith. “But, Mother—”

“No,” the woman snapped.

“But—”

“What have I told you?”

The door slammed closed.

Aestith filed the incident away; it might be useful to know later. When Little Miss Torturer got a bit older, she might be a problem, depending on her skill at manipulation. Fit-throwing and tantrums, as it stood, was a good sign--for him if not for her, anyway. It meant she hadn’t learned to manipulate others to her way of thinking. Sometimes doing nothing at all was the best course of action.

The pair hurried away from the house. Nier muttered something about taking an alternate route for at least a while.

Aestith pursed his lips, then looked down one way, then the other. He pulled Nier aside. You can’t hide in the dark, not from drow, but you can obscure yourself behind bends in narrow caverns and statues.

“Aestith—”

He smothered Nier’s complaint with an open-mouthed kiss. Nier struggled half-heartedly against it, then caved to Aestith’s roving hands.

Heat tingled over Aestith’s skin. He panted. He wanted to fill and be filled in turn. Want throbbed through his veins. His nipples hardened. His chest heaved, heavy. He stopped, then pulled back. He glanced at Nier, then turned away. “We had best hurry or we’ll be late.”

Nier paused. “Yeah.”

Aestith took several deep breaths, but his cock couldn’t seem to stop straining at his pants.

“Aestith, what’s--Oh.” Nier smiled lazily. “May I offer my assistance?”

Aestith looked up. Was he really—? The pair had been too anxious to get much beyond kissing and groping. Aestith would have liked to do more, often thought about it, but that meant taking off his clothes, and that was too horrible to consider. Nier moved behind him, guiding him back into the hidden nook. He unlaced his belt and breeches. Nier’s hand dove into Aestith’s pants. It all happened faster than Aestith could think of a reason not to. To even have someone else touching him was near-bliss.

Nier’s hands cupped his balls, then trailed back. Aestith stilled.

“What’s…” Nier’s voice trailed.

Aestith swallowed hard. He dropped his hands, struggling to pull away from Nier, but there was nowhere to go. Nier jerked back, avoiding Aestith’s elbow. Aestith, back to him, re-laced himself.

“What in the depths of the earth was that?” he whispered. “What is…”

Aestith’s eyes squeezed shut so tight it hurt. “Nier, please.”

Nier nearly tripped over his own feet. His back hit the opposite wall. “You’re… How can you— Aestith, what—?”

“I don’t know!” he hissed, risking a glance over his shoulder.

“You  _ lied _ to me. You said it was just—” Nier gestured at Aestith’s chest. “But it’s  _ not _ .”

Aestith tightened the belt and turned toward the other. “Fine--I didn’t tell you everything. I--I lied, Nier. Of course I lied. I’m frightened.”

Nier stared at him as if he were a wild animal that could charge. He stepped carefully, keeping his eyes on him.

“Nier?”

The other boy shook his head. “I don’t want to get involved.” His eyes stretched wide. “I’m sorry.” He broke and ran.

Aestith was late to lessons, which resulted in disciplinary action. He sat on the earthen ground as he honed and polished each blade. There were dozens. He listened to the voices just beyond the cavern, bouncing from wall to wall to echo in his ears. It gave him a dull kind of comfort, to be able to so easily guess how far away they were. They drifted closer and paused. He caught snatches of conversation, but he wasn’t particularly interested in it; they were discussing his age group’s progress. The instructor was boasting about the best warrior in the class, Kai.

The class was composed of noble but considerably less wealthy houses, or semi-wealthy commoners. For one reason or another, they couldn’t afford a private tutor or didn’t have a private weapon master or didn’t have siblings able to teach--or, like Aestith, had siblings who could have taught him but couldn’t be bothered to waste such time on a male. They wasted money instead, treating him like any other investment, one that they expected to be repaid with interest. Aestith didn’t know Kai’s story.

Kai was an asshole; Kai’s older brother Sailanshin, however, was gorgeous. From snippets of comments from Haeltania, he had also been quite gifted magically and blessed with a face fit to make the stones weep. She had had him once or twice, though no child was begat, which he suspected had more to do with the funny-smelling tea she drank for a bell or two afterwards than happenstance.

Sailanshin’s beauty and proficiency could be the entire cause of Kai’s behavior. Aestith imagined it had to be hard to live your life in another’s shadow. He couldn’t hide in his sister’s shadows even if he had wanted to; there was nothing for him to follow or live up to. Kai had expectations dumped on him because of his elder brother.

Aestith wondered what having a brother was like. Would he have been less lonely? Or more worried? Would it mean competition, or something else? Then,  _ What else was there? _ Followed by,  _ Competition for what, exactly?  _ That would imply that Aestith had anything.

A couple of his sisters were actively trying to get pregnant, Virabel for a second time; there was a great deal of pressure on drow to reproduce. Considering said pressure, Aestith had to, at least in the sanctity of his own mind, question the wisdom of the third son sacrifice, for the sake of each female having a male to herself if nothing else.

He told himself it wasn’t his decision, and anyway, he was the first son, the  _ only _ son. Like spiders, the female drow were larger in stature than the males, more powerful. They needed more women. Nursing and feeding a boy took away from the mother when she could be trying to birth another girl. Still, she took cycles out of her life to make that boy. Yet they could still serve Lolth after the sacrifice, in their way. And it took that pressure off of the mother. It was expensive for a household to raise a child; it should be a child that was worthy of that expense. And, when he considered it, it wasn’t really his decision; it wasn’t his body going through those torments to begin with. All the women really needed was a handful of men, when he thought about it. That, of course, was hampered by monogamy.

He should consider himself fortunate that they did not cull the majority of them, and only the excess.

He was late the next bell too which meant he was late to visit the warehouses, because he had to find a different route, one that didn’t go by Sadist Girl and also didn’t coincide with Nier. Nier seemed disinclined to mention it to anyone, at least as of right now. And maybe Nier deserved to not get involved. Didn’t he deserve to not have to be in the line of fire if he didn’t want to? And how could Aestith ask him to?

Jaalie had painstakingly scouted their route and spent the past bell or so making subtle inquiries. Aestith’s own snooping mostly involved being nearby. People tended to talk over slaves and children as if they weren’t there; Aestith was slender and short--and, loosely speaking, more or less a slave.

The caravan workers were lightly armed, but they had hired on extra guards. Virabel was going herself this time, likely in a fit of frustration. She probably hated it--it made Aestith smirk just to think about how angry she must be to finally flip the chessboard over and go herself, as it were. How humiliating.  _ Yes, someone was definitely plotting against her. But who? _

Descaronan strode around the corner, and the teenager scurried away to hide. He slid in the thin margins between two stacks of shipment. The wooden boxes stank of damp, but the substances inside would be well-wrapped. He found a hollow and nestled down in it. He leaned against a box, listening to the snatches of conversation as the workers passed.

Most of the talk was idle, an occasional complaint or workplace gossip. Some laughter. The slaves were quieter. Footsteps. Moving merchandise. Two sets of feet stopped, one with a click that meant heels.

They spoke in low, hushed tones in a tongue he didn’t know. He crept between the crates. He knelt to look through a crack in the merchandise. He could only really see someone’s back. The woman spoke. Her voice was low and husky, deeper than Descaronan’s. Descaronan wouldn’t wear heels either.

The man took a half-step back. They were signing--he could only see one hand from this angle and the conversation made no sense from his perspective. What was so secret they had to not only use a foreign language, but were signing as well?

She handed him a slip of vellum. His hand fell to one side, where Aestith couldn’t see it. Aestith turned and twisted, but no amount of turning his head would make the gap any larger. He pressed a hand against the crate, trying to leverage himself. It creaked.

He froze.

“Did you hear something?” the man said. Footsteps.

“Hear what?” the woman said, vaguely irritated.

“I thought—Nevermind. There are rats all over this place.”

The pair settled. They had moved further away. She turned. He could only see her stacked heels, a bit of her ankle. Both were unremarkable.

Aestith waited several minutes, then made his way out of the hollow in the crates. He looked around before slipping from cover, then peeked around the corner. The man had his back to him, counting boxes, testing lids with a pry bar.

Aestith had only pickpocketed before when he knew where something was, knew what he was looking for. The purse was too obvious. Somewhere else?

The man reached for a hammer on his toolbelt. His long tunic moved aside, flipping his jerkin inside out. A pocket, a roll of vellum just peeking out of it.  _ Shit, how am I ever going to get that? _

He studied the man instead, and relayed it to Jaalie when she returned.

“And you failed to retrieve the note?” Her hand coming down on the table punctuated the sentence.

He sighed, moving the heavy iron pot back to its spit. The kitchen was one of the best places for these sorts of talks; his other sisters would never come down here. “How might I have stolen it? Maybe you can pickpocket that well, but I can’t.” His mouth twisted into a frown. “Did you find anything?”

She shrugged and squatted in front of the cold fireplace. She picked up the poker and sketched a crude map in the ash. She said nothing until he had studied it, then she smeared it with the flat of the poker. She set it aside and rose. “Best place for an ambush is on the northeastern side.”

He leaned against a counter. “We let it happen?”

She nodded vaguely. “More or less.” Her eyes flicked away. “And you will tail the raiders. They mustn’t see you--either the caravaners or the raiders, especially not during the raid.”

It was dangerous. But he was disposable. More than disposable. He was some kind of malformed freak. “Certainly.” He paused. “We could always botch it.”

“Oh?”

He made a face and shrugged one shoulder dismissively. “Sneak into a couple warehouses, change the shipping destination or dates. We could get a second caravan, either ahead of us or behind us.” He crossed his arms. “Could break a wheel and we’d be behind a bell. Even repainting the wagons could cock it up.”

She tapped a finger on her lower lip. “Hold onto that thought.”

She wasn’t going to. Either because he had thought of it, or she actually did want to see Virabel fail. There were more ways than murder to move up in rank, and more ways than death for another family to ruin his.

#

The bag changed hands.

He said, “Refrain from killing him.”

“Refrain?”

He hesitated. “Teach him a lesson. But don’t kill him.” A pause. “I’d prefer he suffer.”

The other’s lips pressed together into a thin line, trying to read motives on his face. Then the other shrugged. “Then we’ll make the effort.”

It was better if it happened sooner, rather than later. You can’t hide forever.

#

Was it Jaalie? And she was sending him running around like this to throw him off, in case he was reporting to another sister? Or did she think he was working for another family now?

In the complicated landscape of politics, your allies are temporary.

He told himself that on the walks to class, and the walks back. He told himself that during classes, when he wore more padding than the other boys, not out of cowardice, but fear of them seeing. They removed their shirts, and he sweat. They dried, and he marinated. Did anyone suspect? How could they not--he was clearly hiding something, but he supposed it could just as easily be bad skin; his face was spotty enough.

He told himself that it was temporary. He’d pass into physical adulthood, and then someone would kill him. Or, if he managed to evade that, he and Nier would likely go on to different divisions of further study. It didn’t help the present, though.

Nier did not look at him, or speak to him. But then, Nier did not treat Aestith much differently than he treated anyone else. Maybe Nier had learned the same lesson.

The practice ring was a favorite place of many of the boys; it was the place where the politics stopped mattering, where they could be themselves--granted, only with a weapon in hand. But it didn’t matter where you stood in your family or where your family stood in society; for a little while, there was nothing else.

It was just you and the weapon and another weapon coming at you, a target to hit that moved and hit back. You sweat and your heart pounded. You felt alive and at peace. You were where you needed to be, where you were meant to be. You were aware of yourself. You were a jewel being cut and polished to a shine. One bell, you’d be inlaid in something beautiful, and you’d know you belonged there. Some bells, you could even see it.

Except then it was over, and he was no gemstone in a jeweler’s hand, but just a lump of rock. A bruised lump of rock with an aching chest. He walked home covered in sweat.

He longed for a proper bath--hot water in a tub by the fire. Steam rising so thick he could barely see out of it, soaked up to his neck in it. He could dunk his head and hold his breath until it hurt. When he cut himself, he could let the blood drip into the water and taint it pink, the hot water lapping at the shallow cuts and drawing out more of its warmth. And then, oh, a candlemark-long full-body massage with fragrant oils. But he hadn’t risked being naked for that long in a long time.

It wouldn’t be safe.

Awkward teenage sensibilities compelled him to avoid the paths Nier took walking home--and fear kept him from the street that sociopathic little girl was on, lest she learn to recognize him. She wouldn’t stay a child for long. It meant it took him a bit longer getting home, but he didn’t mind that so much. He listened, and watched. Sometimes, he even saw things that were interesting--once, he and Nier had found an affair going on between two merchant houses, and they had more than a few suspicions that a classmate’s parents were siblings.

He rounded a corner and stopped. A gaggle of his classmates stood at a crossway where the path opened to another cavern. Aestith moved to cross the street, but one of them stepped in front of him. His eyes flicked towards the others. They were watching.

He stared straight ahead, then sidestepped, as if he didn’t recognize the powerplay. The other moved with him. He exhaled slowly, then stepped forward, moving his shoulder with the motion. He brought his elbow into the other boy’s gut, then kicked the boy’s ankle to the side. The boy tripped. Aestith ran. They followed.

He raced down the unfamiliar corridor. It narrowed and curved. He followed it upwards. His feet twisted on steps cut unevenly--made to slow down potential invaders. He felt an invader in this section, wrong and foreign, an outcast and a social pariah--if only they  _ knew. _ He felt like a spy or an imposter in his own home, in the only place he’d ever known.

If he could only get home, they wouldn’t  _ dare _ . But he was so far away.

Boots struck on the stone behind him. They seemed to dance or float over the steps where he struggled as if he were trying to climb a rockslide. Fingers whisked against his back, seeking purchase on the folds of cloth. A sudden flat surface where he was expecting another stair pitched him forward and the hand gripped empty air. He bolted down the cavern, inlaid with trihex bricks. He sprinted, all attempts at feigned ignorance gone. His heart raced.

A hand gripped his forearm. He wrenched his arm free. It cost him seconds. Another hand grabbed him. He threw himself against it. Fingers caught in his clothes. Hands, shoving, pulling. Someone struck him. His legs went slack, then he pitched suddenly. He caught a boy in the groin with his boot and punched the other. He broke free and ran. He raced down an alley, a twist of close buildings, and exploded on another stair.

He nearly collided with Nier. They were right behind him, shouting. Nier’s jet complexion paled to iron oxide. His eyes widened. Aestith froze, the world going dim around the edges, sound fading.

A hand grabbed him. He pulled against it and reached for Nier.

“Nier,” he choked. “Don’t let them--”

Nier stepped away.

They drug Aestith back.

There were hands--No, fists mostly. Boots. He bit someone, and they hit his jaw. Someone held his arms back. He kicked the boy in front of him. The boy holding his arms wrenched them until he cried out. Aestith stomped on the boy’s toes. Hands gripped his shirt. The stitching strained and thread snapped. His eyes widened. Everything inside him screamed not to beg, that it would only make it worse.  _ Think! _

“I’m a Rix. Do you think you’ll get away with this?” he spat.

“We already have.”

A hand covered his mouth. He tried to bite it, but the hand smothered him. He fought to breathe. Fabric tore. He wasn’t sure if he were more afraid of them seeing him naked, or what he knew they were going to do to him. Worse, he feared them leaving him alive and naked, stranded so far from home.  _ If you’re going to do this, please kill me afterwards. _

He struggled, kicking, twisting. The buckle on his belt unthreaded. He pitched his head back, slamming the back of his head into someone’s nose. The boy holding him relaxed his grip. A hand fell away. Aestith threw himself to one side, slamming his shoulder against another boy. The pair fell. Aestith tried to get up, but there were too many hands, then a boot slammed against his back, knocking the wind from him. They pinned him down. He squirmed. A foot kicked the side of his head, jarring his teeth. He tasted blood. His eyes watered, but his throat was too dry with terror to scream.

Someone shouted, a woman. The boys fled. Aestith coughed and spit blood onto the street.

The woman stared down at him. “Can you walk, boy?”

His entire body ached. Blood ran from his nose and mingled with the blood on his lip. Pain lanced up his arm. He couldn’t answer, because he didn’t know. As if scaling a canyon, he climbed to one knee in a formal pose of submission. He felt like he might fall over. Blood dripped onto the ground. It bloomed over his lips and tasted of copper in his mouth.

“Get up.”

He staggered, then clawed his way to his feet, leaning heavily against the side of the wall. His trousers sagged and he flushed with embarrassment. He hurriedly adjusted his clothing, studying the brickwork. He swiped at the blood on his lips.

She stared at him as if she were trying to bore a hole into his skull. “What was that on about?” She put her perfumed hands to either side of his head. Magic flowed through her hands. He balked at her robe.  _ A cleric, here. _

_ Nier.  _ “Th-Thank you, my lady. It’s nothing. A petty squabble. I—”

She slapped him, relatively lightly after everything. She could have hit him harder, if she had wanted to. “You’re lying.” 

Was it true--could they read minds? He cringed. “I--I am ignorant of their reasons for attacking me.”

“Fair.” The magic itched downwards. The loose tooth corrected itself. A broken bone in his finger rotated with a painful grinding sound, then snapped back into place. He flinched. She said, “Any forthcoming theories as to why you’re so special that Lolth would send me here?”

His eyes widened. The goddess had taken notice of him? To send someone there to find out, to sacrifice him? “Maybe there is more to my attackers than one might assume?” he said.

She considered the wisdom of this, then shrugged. “Or perhaps your screaming distracted me from what I had been sent here to do.”

_Everything is a test by Lolth. It was her desire for them to struggle._ If she had sent this cleric, it had been just another part of his own struggle, not to aid him. Or it was a part of this cleric’s struggle, to involve her in something she otherwise would not have been in. He didn’t remember screaming, but he must have. He hesitated, then offered, “Could it also be that by delaying you, I may have allowed you to see something that you may have missed otherwise, if you had passed it?”

She grabbed his short hair, and pushed his head from side to side, looking for any further marks under the blood. Head wounds could bleed proliferously, he had learned, but it didn’t always necessitate severe injury. He stared past her, never directly at her. Terror climbed in his throat. She let go of his hair. “You’re a Rix. The only boy? Stain on the bloodline?” 

His eyes flicked back downwards.

“Yes, I thought so,” she mused. “I recognize those cheekbones.” His eyebrows arched.  _ No one _ ever recognized him, least of all by bloodlines. “You resemble your mother.” She smirked at the subtle implication that his mother could birth a male that looked enough like her to be recognizable--an insult.

Her hands fell away in a perfumed wave of foreign flowers. She stepped back, pointed chin held high. Her hair coiled on top of her head like a crown of amber snakes. The robes should have been a simple purple with black trim. Everyone wore dark colors, and so did she, but that wasn’t  _ all _ she wore. Gilding and rings, layers of silk and brocade. Paint and powder to accentuate her features and draw attention to her. She wasn’t just a cleric--she was a priestess. “And now, you are indebted to me, Rix.”

He bowed his head, his heart pounding furiously in his ears. “What would you ask of me, my lady?”

She studied him. “It is yet to be named. But when Lady Ondalia calls for you, you’ll answer.” She cocked an eyebrow. “Won’t you?”

“Anything you ask of me, priestess.” But she could have that anyway. She was a cleric, a priestess. There were none higher than she outside her temples. It wasn’t about her rank, then. This was about  _ her _ .

She turned on the ornamented steel heel of her boot and walked away, perhaps to find her true purpose here. Her guards, a contingent of bugbear slaves, flanked her. He watched her go, some longing stirring in him, but he didn’t know if it was a longing for her, or that he wanted to be her.

Whatever had sent her, the goddess would not have sent her for  _ him _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note about the Rix family: They are not armigerous; they are essentially middle class at best.


	4. Kinslayer

Jaalie had bullied her way onto the caravan. “No” to Jaalie often just meant “find a different way”. She had given a map to brooding little Aestith and told him to meet her at the rendezvous point. She told herself that her younger brother wasn’t stupid. Fact of the matter, she thought he’d grow up to be at least smarter than Virabel. Blasphemous thought though it was to consider a male to be more intelligent than his sister, nonetheless, she believed it to be true. She justified the thought by admitting that it was less about Aestith, and more about Virabel’s intelligence.

Virabel disliked Jaalie’s presence, though Jaalie mostly ignored this; Virabel didn’t like  _ much _ . She was also jumpy. Why wouldn’t she be? Her supply trains had been hit mercilessly the past few turns. The scarcity was driving up cost, but that waterskin would burst before long. Though upon reflection, sending Aestith with Virabel would have been easier. He was slight, even by male standards. She didn’t think he would ever be over five feet--and that was just  _ inconspicuous _ . You overlooked someone that short, forgive the obvious joke. And anyway, fewer people noticed when he did things. Or, even better, they attributed it to his absent-minded, sleepy demeanor.

In contrast, people noticed where the fine-featured woman with spun rose gold hair went. Which is why, when they stopped to make camp, Jaalie found it simple to pin her locks under a pale wig and wander into the camp. She hunched to disguise her height. It wouldn’t fool anyone who knew her, but it was shocking how few people would recognize her without her standard rosy hair and makeup--and, thanks to years of wearing heels, no one should recognize her poise or height. People were incredibly stupid.

She had only to avoid Virabel and speak little and less. She mostly wanted to listen anyway.

Someone walked from the end of the train to the front. Jaalie watched their progress. It was too steady to be a regular patrol; the patrols lingered. They meandered around the line and occasionally chatted. They poked around any of the honeycombed side passages or stopped to take a drag on a rolled cigarette from one of their fellows. They acted normal, and slightly bored. Except this one. He cut a line straight from the back of the supply train to the front. Single-mindedly, he kept on his path. He stopped suddenly, as if jerked to a stop on an invisible leash. Jaalie inspected her nails idly, as if she were not watching.

He started forward, but as if he were treading through molasses. Slow, careful, like he were expecting something.

Jaalie followed him from the other side of the wagons. He wasn’t on the other side when she rounded the corner. She took a step back. Nothing. She stilled, then looked from side to side. Satisfied that no one was near, she bent as if to adjust a buckle on her boot, then looked under the wagon. The man stood there, next to a second pair of legs. The man turned back. Jaalie rose slowly and crept to the side of the wagon in time for Virabel to walk past.

Jaalie’s eyes narrowed. She waited half a minute, then crept after her, keeping the wagons between them. Because it was Virabel, whatever message that had been delivered may very well be nothing. Virabel wouldn’t plot her own destruction.

The youngest Rix sister turned and walked back down the line, the corners of her mouth downturned in thought. Something wasn’t  _ right _ .

They had a date. Another house scheming, but with who? It could be the house alone. Why? Namika had been involved, at least as a courier--and finding that out had been expensive. Maybe the Innis family wanted the territory and to corner the market.

That seemed most likely to her. If it were bandits acting alone, there were less complicated ways for them to learn the trade routes to hit them.

Aestith should be in position by now, if he hadn’t run into trouble.

#

Aestith waited. He had few problems with waiting. Most of hunting was waiting. Even sparring was waiting. He could wait. Alone, he could move faster than the caravan and made it to the rendezvous marks ahead of time. He appreciated the time alone, the seclusion, and the quiet. He hadn’t gone back to class since Nier had betrayed him. He couldn’t bear seeing their faces. The thought of having to spar with them filled him with dread. He was glad when Jaalie had told him to leave, to miss the classes to run the errand. It gave him time to think.

He couldn’t tell Jaalie, or anyone else, what had happened. The thought of them knowing he had been caught like that was almost as bad as being caught. They would say he deserved it for allowing it to happen.

He didn’t see anyone watching him, but he stayed in the hiding place anyway. It was a small, snug fit even for him, but he felt secure in it. Anything wanting to grab him from behind would have to somehow quietly tunnel through layers of rock and earth.

Plus, if the tunnel collapsed, he’d probably die instantly. No worries then.

Then he heard footsteps. No voices, but armor and heavy weaponry aren’t silent. Some shuffling, then silence.  _ The bandits, _ he assumed. They had come from a side tunnel, a crevasse a few feet from the cavern floor. When they passed and were well away, he snuck out carefully to make sure. There were scuff marks from armored boots on the wall, marks from a grappling hook. He snuck back to his hiding spot and wedged himself back into the dark. He lifted the tin canvas aside to squeeze past it. The tin grated and crinkled together. He cringed, but it settled back into place when he dropped it. 

From the other side, it would look just like the cave wall so long as it stayed cool here and no one had a lantern; Desarandian had never opened a book and couldn’t carry on a conversation to save her life, but when it came to metalworking, she was a genius. He had to get the prototype back to her workshop before she noticed it was missed, but he probably had more than enough time to do that. To think that a drow’s infrared was foiled by a sheet of cool tin.

A candlemark later, the greased wheels of the wagons echoed down the cavern. Then they passed him. No one investigated his nook in the rock. No one listened to his steady breathing, or saw any careful movements. An advance guard roamed ahead, looking for any debris they had to move. A wagon rolled past. More people, then another. Then they were only echoes in the dark.

Someone ahead called. A clash of weaponry, yelling. His nostrils flared. Was that…?

Burning pitch. The bandits had set a damned wagon on fire--which wasn’t a bad tactic against drow, provided the attackers weren’t also dark elves. He frowned in thought.

Still, he kept where he was, and waited. The scent of blood and earth filled his nostrils. People shat when they died. They stunk when a spear disemboweled them and ripped their intestines open. They pissed themselves. They threw up. It stunk. It was part of life--and death.

Some yelling, a wagon turned and rushed back the other way. Then it was quiet.

Aestith lifted the blanket and crawled under it. He crept from the alcove in a crouch and ran past the carnage. The light from the fire hurt; he shaded his eyes with a palm. The bandits, a variety of goblins, seemed to be fleeing.

“Aestith.”

He froze, then his head turned slowly toward the sound. His mouth felt dry. He almost tripped over the spilled contents of a crate. He slipped in the fermented liquid, then knelt beside her. He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped. What could he say?

“Aestith.” Jaalie’s eyes rolled toward him. Her left hand clutched at her middle. “It’s—” Her eyes widened.

He dove to the side. The knife quivered in the ground. It had missed him by inches. Virabel stalked toward him.

“Oh. I didn’t recognize you, Aestith. Fuck are you doing here?” she said.

He kept his head down when speaking to her. He said, “I—”

Jaalie tried to rise, then fell. “I asked him to come,” she gasped. 

Virabel looked around the caravan. “Right.” She cocked her head at Jaalie. “How bad is it?”

Jaalie grimaced and moved her left hand enough for her sister to guess. Virabel’s lip curled disapprovingly.

Aestith swallowed. “I’ll fetch the healer—”

Jaalie grabbed his arm with her other hand, her eyes wide. She made a short gasp. Her head drooped. She mouthed, so only he could read her lips,  _ Don’t leave me with her. _ Her grip on his arm tightened. Jaalie was a handful of inches taller than he, heavier. He couldn’t carry her.

“We should carry her,” he said slowly. “If the healer is dead, we can still get her to the end of the line where they weren’t hit as hard. We can rush her back home.”

“Moving her is dangerous.”

Someone shouted, then walked up to them. A man bowed to Virabel. “My lady, the—”

“Find the healer. Run, now.”

The man turned and fled. Aestith breathed in relief.

Virabel, still reluctant to give Aestith or Jaalie any ground, said, “Aestith. Tear your sleeve for a compress.”

He hesitated, but Jaalie let go of his arm. He glanced at Virabel, then carefully shrugged out of the jacket. He had to use his boot knife to tear the wool sleeve, then he rolled it down his arm and tucked his knife back into his boot. He held the makeshift compress to her stomach.

Virabel squatted on her haunches, looking distantly at Jaalie’s features. She touched Aestith’s scabbed arm, the unique slicing pattern toward the elbow. She rotated it to examine the marks with a curious frown, then let go, disinterested. Aestith stared straight forward. Jaalie blinked, dazed, her head rolling. Virabel slapped her gently.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Virabel snapped. “Stay awake, damnit.”

“Water,” Jaalie breathed. Her eyes shut.

“Jaalie. Sister!”

Jaalie blinked, then her eyes slid closed again. Virabel shook her. Aestith cringed. “Don’t fall asleep!” she snapped. “You must stay awake!”

“I’m so… tired. It’s cold.”

“You have lost a great deal of blood.”

Aestith’s hands were soaked in it. His eyes watered against the smoke and the blaze of the fire.  _ Please, Jaalie. Please. _

Jaalie’s head lolled to one side. “Jaalie!” Aestith called. She did not stir.

Virabel shoved him back and lifted her younger sister’s chin. “Jaalie,  _ stay awake _ .”

Jaalie’s lips moved, then her eyes closed. Virabel dropped her chin and her head fell. Her neck twisted at an awkward angle. “Where is that damned healer?” Virabel sighed. She pushed back and looked around the wagon.

Aestith crawled back beside Jaalie. He didn’t want it to be true. Was she—? Had she—?

He felt her wrist for a pulse, but between his fright and labored heart, he could not tell.

Virabel frowned down at him. “Aestith,” she said, an odd expression on her face. “You…” Her gaze, he saw in dim horror, was fixed on his chest. The angle, the sweat, how he had been confined for so long, and now without the jacket. 

Aestith’s fingers touched Virabel’s knife, still buried in the dirt beside him. He’d never be able to match Virabel, not with a knife. Not, to his knowledge, with anything. And if he killed her… But what else could he do?

Her hand rested casually on the knife at her hip. Then her eyes narrowed. “Why are you here, Aestith?”

“I… with Jaalie…”

“Yes, you’re her little tagalong. But why, one wonders, are you two here.”

_ She knows. _ His eyes widened. She  _ knew _ . His eyes flicked toward Jaalie. And who had killed Jaalie? 

_ Don’t leave me with her. _

She sighed. “Jaalie won’t die off just so you can take her place. I won’t have it.” Her eyes fixed on his chest. A blade flipped into her hand.

Reacting to terror before his brain caught up, he snatched the knife in the dirt--more from fear than intent. He pitched backwards, clawing his way to his feet. Every drop of blood sang his body to an electric state of shock. His muscles grew taught with tension. He was running before he realized he was, a frightened prey animal fleeing from the predator, even when it knew the act would make it give chase. The chase was better than only waiting for the pounce. It gave the illusion that he stood a chance if his legs could only carry him, if his lungs could supply him with enough air, if he were very lucky.

If he could make it around the crates, if he could turn at the wagon. If he could only get away, hide, wait. Then what?

It wasn’t Virabel’s best throw, but, from her point of view, it didn’t need to be. The thin blade took him in the back of his right thigh. For an instant, he only felt pressure, a warm sensation of blood, then his foot came down. His weight fell on the injured leg. Exquisite pain shot through his nerves. His leg buckled under his own weight. The knife in his hand tumbled to the ground as he collapsed. He pushed his hands out to catch himself. He landed hard on one elbow. The stiletto dug into the muscle. Every flex and spasm of his leg sent new tendrils of pain arcing up his leg. Pain shot up his left thigh like a torrent of water.

He reached for a crate and forced his way upwards, gritting his teeth. Training hurt. The razors he danced across his arms hurt. Starvation hurt. This was just one more pain. He could endure it. His heart hammered a tattoo against his ribs. A lump of pain in his throat made it hard to breathe. He staggered forward, dragging his bad leg. He had to get away.

The pommel of the second knife struck him in the back. He flinched, but it fell to the ground. He swung his right leg forward. Every movement hurt. He had to move. He reached down. His fingers touched the stiletto. The slight twitch of the blade made him gasp. Spots filled his vision and he fell forward. He wrenched his arm back, fingers twitched around the jeweled pommel, then slid down the handle. With a strangled scream, he wrenched the dagger free. Sweat beaded over his skin. Fear had a distinct smell, a sour taste like bile after too much ale. It was dead blood and broken intestines, leaking pores and curdled tears; a taste like someone wanting to run because they couldn’t fight.

Virabel’s boots crunched over loose shale.

She grabbed his mangled hair in one hand and caught his wrist in the other. She twisted his wrist until he dropped the blade. It hit the ground with a clatter and she dropped his wrist. A boot slammed against his injured leg, idly as if she thought it amusing. His teeth clenched. Tears stung his eyes. Aestith was going to die.

The point of the knife dug into his throat. A tiny droplet of blood formed like a ruby on his charcoal skin. He might have whimpered. He wondered if he would feel the knife when it opened his throat, if he would feel his body growing colder as he bled out on the shale. He wondered if anyone would remember him.

Virabel crumpled. The knife spun from her hand. Blood trickled from his throat. She lay on her side, her expression slack. An arrow jutted in the base of her skull.

Jaalie’s bow fell from her hand, and she slumped to the earth.

Aestith staggered upright and fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rix family funfacts: Their family is known for producing many non-identical twins.


	5. Spiders

Logically, when he thought about it later, he could have gone home. Said he was injured from the bandit raid. They would see that Jaalie had been gutted and had, for whatever reason, shot Virabel. It may even look like, to an outsider, that Virabel had gutted Jaalie herself--and maybe she had. And maybe Virabel had orchestrated the raids to lure out her more curious sisters. Maybe it was to frame someone else. Maybe it was really a plot against Virabel. Maybe it was any number of things.

More logically still, he feared that he would be blamed for his sisters’ deaths. Aestith was the only witness.

Aestith no longer cared. No, he had never cared. Jaalie had cared, so he had cared vicariously.

He had been there, had been a witness to what had happened between his sisters. There would be questions if he went home. And he was too scared anyway. He walked until his racing heart had to slow, and the pain in his leg flared anew. He staggered and leaned heavily against the cave wall. His trouser leg was soaked in blood. He felt light-headed.

He panted, then squirmed his trousers down to his knee. The bloody cloth stuck to his leg. He had to burn it closed with the one small fire spell he knew. His skin smoked and burnt and he bit back screams. His eyes watered. He fell to his knees, scraping the bare skin on the cavern floor. When he could manage it, he clawed his way back to his feet and pulled up his trousers. He staggered forward. Sweat mingled with the drying blood. His throat felt raw and tired.

He wanted to kill whoever was responsible for doing this to him. He wanted them to suffer, but even hate couldn’t drive him; Virabel was dead. There was no one for him to take revenge  _ on _ . Was this what it felt like after you had revenge? Were you left with your anger and no way to sate it, and nothing to live on? Then what good was anger? Or any emotion.

He kept walking. He walked without food or water, or rest, into a state of delirium from his own exhaustion and blood loss. He didn’t know for how long he stumbled, until finally he, head down, fell against the stone slab. It was cool against his brow, smooth and flat. He rested his cheek against one side, then shuddered. His hand slid over the old carvings on the altar. It was old, ancient and abandoned, but he knew what it was.

Mindlessly, he brushed the altar with his remaining sleeve. He kicked a rat skeleton away and peeled lichen from the stone with his fingernails. Feverish, he worked, sweating with exhaustion. He had nothing, but he would give it something. He took his bootknife and, gently, sliced into a bare spot on his arm. He held it over the altar and let it drip. The cut was shallow and he had to squeeze it, but he got out eight drops before he would have to cut again to get more. He smeared the remaining blood over his finger and put it to his lips to taste the iron.

_ Aestith. _

He heard the voice like a thought, like someone speaking through his bones. It resonated behind his eyeballs and sunk into his brain like a bone in broth. He shivered, then his eyes fell on the worn statue behind the altar.

He choked on a response, and thought it his place to remain silent, but the silence was deafening; it demanded an explanation, a defense. He looked down, his heart hammering so hard he wondered if his ribs might break. The goddess was  _ speaking to him _ . He wanted to turn and run, scream. Do something. Anything. He was a mutated freak and he must have offended her. “I am sorry to have intruded, my lady. I—”

The dark around him seemed to press against him, so thick it was suffocating. It was like drowning, but drowning in air. A moth trapped in a web.  _ I have observed your predicament. _

He swallowed hard, eyes squeezed shut. He could barely breathe. He was afraid to die, yet at the same time, there was a peace to accepting the inevitable. A peace in serving her.

_ Go. _

He opened his eyes. She wasn’t going to kill him?

He opened his mouth to object, then snapped it closed. He couldn’t object to a woman, much less a goddess. Who was speaking to him.  _ She _ was speaking to  _ him _ .

He would not survive at home. There would be some who saw him as blessed, others who saw him as a threat, and others burning with envy. Still others would try to use him. No matter how they treated him, there were dangers all around. And he wasn’t learned enough to understand them or deal with them.

“To where would you have me go?” he said, his voice a thin whine. The dwarves? Some other section of the Underdark, far away from home?

The dark withdrew like a presence pointing the way. A narrow crevasse cut into the rock wall. A web spun across it.

_ You cannot trust anyone, my son and daughter one. _

He turned back toward the statue, mouth opened in shock. “I’m… I am—?”

_ Either you shall fail, and fall into obscurity, or you shall rise. _

#

He must have fallen asleep, for he woke with his back pressed against the altar.

It startled him, at first, then he stilled. He felt weak with hunger and thirst. A faint trickle of water lured him down a lichen-covered slope to a pool. He cupped the crisp liquid in his hands and drank deeply. He drank until the water filled his belly and let him forget his hunger--how long had he walked?

He stripped from his bloodied clothes and washed them in the pool, then beat the water out of them. He laid them over a stone and slid slowly into the water. It sharpened his mind awake. His nipples were taught and his manhood shrank at the cold. He dunked his head under and scrubbed at his hair. He dove under again and drank deeply, then surfaced coughing and he almost laughed. He hadn’t had a bath in so long, even the chill of the pool was welcome. He liked the feeling of the water cradling him, wrapping around him. 

He closed his eyes, and stayed until his toes were numb, then waded dripping back to the shore. His clothes were still wet, and so was he, so he left them there and carefully picked his way back to the altar. He prayed, kneeling until he lost the feeling in his legs. Had she really spoken to him? He had been so exhausted and delirious, he couldn’t say if it were not some fever dream.

He had to go back down to the pool for his clothes and to drink. His mouth was suddenly very dry, both with trepidation, and just a general fear. Fear of the future, of the unknown, even a fear of the goddess herself. She had spoken to him. Her, personally. Not a messenger, not some vague sign. But her own voice.

He staggered to the crevasse and glanced back at the altar. A spider dropped down from the statue. He closed his eyes briefly and stepped into the defile in the rock.

It was slow going. He often had to inch his way along sideways and in places, the ceiling was low even for him. A long while later, it opened enough for him to walk, then the ceiling dropped and he had to crawl. Only the sight of an occasional spider made him continue. It wasn’t that the space was close; it was that the weight of the world was above him and there was no discernable way to escape to an open area.

The floor dropped gradually, then sloped downwards. He stopped, but there was nowhere else to go. He tried to back up, but what for? It was too close together; he couldn’t turn around. With some shuffling, he pulled his legs under him, then wiggled backwards so he was lying on his back. Loose rock tumbled down on him. Dirt stuck in his hair. He carefully rolled onto his stomach, then inched back, down the slope.

The slope slanted and dropped suddenly and he fell. He clawed at the ground and slipped. He inhaled sharply, then choked down the cry of surprise lest it echo. His feet dropped on the ground. The fall hadn’t even been very far.

He took several deep breaths and brushed off his knees. He stretched until his back popped.

The cavern had widened to something roughly the size of his family home. Stalagmites and stalactites met at a thin center in random places above the area. Water dripped from the stones. He caught droplets in his cupped hands until he had enough to drink, then sipped carefully. He wet the back of his neck with the remains and looked for an exit. The first, he left because it was not marked. The next had a cobweb in a corner. He passed it. The third had a fresh web, and he ducked to avoid destroying it when he passed.

He scratched at the scabs on his arm from last week, little marks sliced into the skin near his elbow where it was easily hidden. He didn’t think his sisters or anyone else would have cared, but it kept people from asking questions. He had never wanted to draw attention to himself.

Aestith walked—it felt endlessly, and in circles. He may have preferred some monster in the cave, something terrifying to consume him and keep him from the horror of trying to survive on his own. He was eager to obey Lolth, and terrified of doing so. He didn’t want to part from everything he knew. He wanted to go home. He wanted to go back to the kitchen and make pies and bread. He wanted those brief candlemarks every bell where he felt free in the fighting ring. He wanted stolen kisses from Nier. 

But he couldn’t have that. Going back would mean dying.

Yet dying seemed so much easier.  _ Of course it was easy--that’s why living meant struggling. _

His stomach whined at the thought of food. He sighed and swallowed spit. He would have to bear it.

Without a timepiece, he had no way to tell how long he had been walking. He just knew he had stopped several times to rest; he had to stop more often the hungrier he grew. Aestith must have walked for miles when he fell. He did not get up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rix family funfacts: The family resemblance is very strong, despite that none of them are "identical", as it were; they all, including Aestith, have similar bone structure and features, though the most predominant trait is that none of them have truly black skin; it is a dark charcoal grey in color, and their eyes are also uniformly grey. This is a class feature in Enainsi, and a touchy subject.


	6. Stone

Aestith was warm when he woke, but too tired to lift his eyelids just yet. He was lying on something too soft to be the cavern floor. It also wasn’t at the angle he remembered walking up. It was flat. Something was pulled over him, and for a moment, he believed himself encased in a cocoon, a web, trapped.

His eyes shot open, and he stilled. It was a blanket. He was lying on a bed. He threw back the blankets, and was horrified to find that he was naked. He wrapped himself in a blanket, and wanted to hide, but he had to find out where he was. The room had different furnishings than he was accustomed to. The style was different, the cuts of the furniture more angular, the legs less fluted. He turned from a small table and looked at the bed. Slowly, it occurred to him that the furniture was dwarven. Was he… was he out of the Underdark?

It made him feel suddenly cold, exposed as fresh cut emeralds. The idea that the surface was barely a stone’s throw away made him shiver and shake. He sat down, lower lip trembling. His stomach roiled with sickness, then he noticed a more pressing matter. His stomach growled with want of food.

He found a cup with water and gulped it down. If it were poison, there would have been no use in bringing him here. He looked about the room for any semblance of his clothing, but could find none. He had to venture out of it. The blanket tight about himself, he pushed the stone door. It groaned, then opened to a small outer room with a ceiling just slightly lower than he was accustomed. The dwarf looked up and grinned under a full beard.

“You’re awake!” he said and jumped down. His Common was heavily accented. “Found yer half-dead. Looked like you was tryin’ to make it up here anywho. So we picked yer oop. Force fed yer some broth and some water. Yer need some good vittles in ya.” He looked at the pot over the fire. “It’ll be a mite longer, methinks. Let me poot the tea on.” He scooted over to the cupboard and rattled about with the tins. “Yer clothes were all a mess when we found yas. Scraped up and tattered they was. I managed to take them apart to use them as a pattern. You elves are all kinds of crazy proportions.”

Aestith’s face burned, somewhere between embarrassment and disgust. This  _ dwarf _ was looking him in the face. The realization that the dwarf thought of him as an equal was revolting. “Yes, but—”

The dwarf set the kettle on the spit. “Now what did yer say yer name was?”

“Aestith,” he said quietly.

The dwarf snorted. “Bellan.”

Aestith’s brow wrinkled. His Common wasn’t as good as he had thought it was, and that accent was confusing. “Excuse me?”

The dwarf pointed at himself. “Name. Can’t just be ‘dwarf’ to yas forever.”

Aestith stiffened. Could dwarves read minds? No, he supposed it was simply plastered over his face, which was unseemly. He could picture his sisters’ disapproving frowns so clearly-- _ Aestith, you can’t let your emotions paint such a picture over your face! _

“Now, I like drow smithwork and have some respect for yer blood’s battle prowess. Can’t stand to drink with yer kin though, know what I mean.”

Aestith pulled the blanket a little closer around himself. He shifted uncomfortably. The dwarf had seen him naked. And hardly thought anything of it. Maybe he hadn’t really looked. Aestith wouldn’t. But the breasts… The dwarf busied himself with the tea, then seemed to remember. He stopped what he was doing and shuffled to a table, where he removed a set of clothes. “Put this on. Can’t have yas wandering ‘round all starkers.”

Aestith accepted it, then nearly dropped the bundle when the dwarf’s hand actually touched his. The slaves never actually  _ touched _ the drow, not when they could help it. Aestith had little and less experience with non-drow, only slaves or the occasional adventurer, which were rare enough. Sometimes Duergar like this one ventured into Enainsi doing trading, but Aestith had never been permitted to interact with them yet. He was repulsed that the dwarf would touch his hand so casually, and say nothing about it. He took the bundle and hurried back into the room. 

They were simple garments, the sorts of things he would  _ expect  _ from dwarves, who he had hitherto believed slept in chainmail drawers. The garments were woolen, a bit of linen. The boots were leather with reinforced toes--he supposed that was just how dwarves made things. Bits of it were familiar--whatever salvageable scraps Bellan had managed to pull apart from his clothes had been used, either as reinforcement, or as paneling.

A small, petulant, angry part of him wanted it not to fit. He wanted it to be too itchy. He wanted to run back home, to fill himself with resentment. This dwarf just presumed everything about him! He presumed his size, the tea, the food! Yes, it was true--but it wasn’t his place!

Aestith sat, fully dressed, staring at his hands.

The clothes fit better than his old clothes, made to conform more to his body shape rather than the shape he should have had, if not for his odd puberty.

He hated it.

#

Bellan, it took Aestith two turns to learn, was a  _ female _ dwarf. She had a husband, Qelkan who came home later. Aestith had been sleeping in their child’s room, who had long grown up and had a family of their own. That is to say, their multiple children. They had apparently used to have a larger home, then downsized. They said this was to prevent their family from visiting often and bringing all of their children and grandchildren. Apparently, they had a whole clan of them.

His rent, as it were, wasn’t free, though. While he was recovering from his flight, he helped Bellan with the cooking and baking, which he enjoyed well enough and was familiar to him. He wasn’t shy about work or getting dirty, which Bellan said was a rare gift among elves; it was because of his station. His family had money, but no influence. The aristocracy wasn’t open to commoners. That, a healthy lack of trust, and Aestith’s own interests in cooking meant he didn’t mind doing chores overmuch. The droll physical activity actually gave his body something to do while his mind could wander, and generally a drow elf was relatively safe in their own home.

He knew that he would be no use in the mine or around a smithy. This troubled the dwarves not at all, and instead they had him mind the animals, or gave him what they considered to be very light armor and put him on guard detail--something based solely on a drow reputation he initially resented.

He resented quite a lot about living with the dwarves, actually. He resented their sameness, the cultural differences that seemed so alien to him, their harsh language he was so reluctant to try to learn but had to. Most of all, he resented that they were actually relatively kind to him, even if this was more out of respect for Bellan and Qelkan. If they could be cruel, mean-spirited, or even a bit spiteful, he might have hated them. It would have been easier to hate them.

Of course drow were superior; they were  _ drow _ . And of course their ways were better. Then he had had to relent and give ground. Yes, drow were superior  _ but _ dwarves made excellent heavy armor. Of course drow were better, but dwarves brewed a fine mead. Aestith was  _ angry _ that, after half a year, he was having trouble holding onto all of his prejudices, and was terrified that it made him less drow. He didn’t  _ want _ to be like the handful of treacherous drow who had abandoned their people, their faith, and their culture; he wanted all of those things, and wanted to be a part of it. He saw good in the dwarven culture, but he was a stranger to it and he knew that deep down, he always would be. It wasn’t his culture.

Imagine his shock when he saw a family with nine children--each of them boys. When he made the realization, he could not even speak. Nine boys. What on earth would anyone do with nine useless boys?

It made his head spin. Marriage ceremonies were even more confusing. Bellan had had to explain everything to him, and it still baffled him. Why under the earth would they do that?

A surface trading party interested him--he had interacted with only dwarves for so long, he could do with even seeing someone he wasn’t staring down at--drow caravans rarely came this far when there was a larger settlement that was closer to them. There was a half-elf with the surface caravan, but it only really made him more lonely. It was eerie how much, and yet how little, she had looked like what he considered “normal”. It was just enough to make his skin crawl. At least among the dwarves, they were so alien that he wasn’t reminded of how alone he really was.

He missed the deeper parts of the Underdark. He felt like the surface was barely a scratch of the ceiling away and he would be breathing alien air and blinded by the boiling fires above. The metals here were even different.

Aestith liked the dwarves, in their way. He liked their bluntness and how little shit they tolerated. He appreciated them and came to learn their culture, though he suspected he would never integrate with it. He would always be an outsider anywhere else. He didn’t really want to belong anywhere else. Enainsi was home. Sometimes, when he felt particularly bold, he would stride downwards into it, seeking divinity and home. Sometimes, he found it, or something like it. The first few sections of the Underdark were as far as he ever quite dared, but his relief when he was there was palpable.

With the right gear and boots, he could make his way down to the small abandoned shrine, where he would fast in prayer. Lolth almost never spoke to him, but there were other small signs, or things he chose to interpret as signs. It was hard for him to make out sometimes.

Bellan never made any noise about him leaving. She seemed to like having him around--it gave the neighbors a good scandal to happily complain about, and she liked having his help around the house.

“You’re homesick,” Bellan told him.

“Hm?”

She gestured. “You’ve been moping around the house for days. I won’t ask why you can’t go home, or won’t--but go for a walk. Get out of the house. That’s an order. Come back in a better mood and I’ll show you how to candy yams.”

He knew the word “days”--that was a bell to him. His nose wrinkled. He didn’t know the other word. “Yams?”

She smiled under her beard. “Go on now.”

There was no use in arguing; he left. The next dwarf settlement was a meandering two-mark walk.

He walked quickly, as if he had somewhere urgent to be, or as if he were escaping something. He forced himself to slow, to think, to simply breathe and just  _ be _ for a while. He found a quiet alcove and folded himself into it. He sat down and closed his eyes in an effort to block out the world. Somewhere distantly, water dripped. A blind salamander scampered over the rock surface.

Aestith inhaled deeply, the scent of earth and stone. It didn’t smell the same. Nothing was the same. He pushed the thoughts away, but they kept coming back, the awful homesickness and the loneliness.

Something fell across his hand and he jumped, eyes flying open. The small brown cave spider scampered away. He closed his eyes, and thought about spiders. He thought about Lolth, and spiders and nothing else. His mind went into a careful blank where only quivering webs of spider silk existed.

When he unfolded himself, his joints were stiff. Walking felt good. He kept on toward the small village. Concentrating on Lolth made him feel less lonely, more connected. They, all drow, were like interconnected joints on a giant web. Everyone was connected, no matter how distant. The weaver wove a grand tapestry, and he would only ever see a small fragment of it. That she had even spoken to him, taken notice of him, struck him with awe.

He reached the village and wandered to the village pumphouse, which was more or less like their well. Dwarves, he had to concede, were clever and instead of a simple pully system, they had a pump that, through a series of pipes, made water fill up a bucket or trough. A dwarf was there when he arrived, and he waited outside for him-- _ her _ \--to finish, then he trailed inside. 

He stared at his feet as he left, partway out of long-standing habit. Aestith jerked back to keep from crashing into the other set of feet. He looked up to apologize.

“Excuse me, miss,” the dwarf said and shuffled past.

Aestith started to correct him, then stopped. Aestith had never let his hair grow out before. Cutting it had been another small thing he could control, and he had been neurotic about leaving it short. It had been six cycles--months, here--since he had bothered and while it was far from long, it had a natural curl that Haeltania had always been staunchly jealous of. That, and his shirt, made him look  _ feminine _ . It was like thinking he was blind and realizing he only had a blindfold on. It seemed so obvious now. Lolth  _ intended _ him not only to live with these changes, but to use what could have been a life-threatening fault to his advantage. He could be a legend, if only he learned enough to do it.

It had never even occurred to him to pretend to be female.  _ Am I pretending? _ That thought made him dizzy.

He did not know how to respond to the other. Instead, he made a series of facial expressions, finally settling on what he hoped was “lofty” and tilted his head up. He strode away without further recognition of the man. His palms were sweating, his throat even drier than before, and his heart hammered, but he wanted to shout, to run, to laugh as if he were a child. He felt like he was new, like he had just been born only minutes ago. Every breath of air was for him, the earth beneath his feet supported only him. If he were to speak, he was the only one who knew how.

It was all so obvious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aestith funfacts: There is an elven deity (Corellon Larethian) that is intersex, like Aestith. Even elves that do not worship this deity can be intersex. More fun fact, this god is Lolth's ex-lover.


	7. Masquerade

Aestith looked at himself in the polished brass mirror, in Bellan’s room. His hair had grown nearly to his shoulders. Its own weight removed some of the curl, giving it only the gentlest touch. The dress was…  
“Stop fidgeting or I’ll end up poking you again,” Bellan warned him.  
Aestith stilled, but kept glancing at the mirror. He couldn’t help it. Even to his eyes, he looked like a woman. It was terrifying and exciting all at the same time.  
Bellan had complained good-naturedly, during this process, about how so many creatures apparently needed different costumes for men and women, lest they not be able to tell which is which. This amused Aestith to no ends.  
He had decided that, in the sanctity of his own mind, he still thought of himself as male. In his head, he always would be a male. However, he couldn’t deny his body, or Lolth’s apparent wishes. He would present himself as a woman, and why would anyone ever doubt otherwise, unless they saw him naked?  
Not to say that hadn’t happened. He was a young ma--wom--he was a teenager, flooded with desires. While he would never desire to see a dwarf naked, there were occasional drow--his own family had had several trade routes with duergar, which kept them from demeaning themselves by going to the surface. Once, a surface half-elf of some flavor, but Aestith actually didn’t like that part. It wasn’t that she wasn’t pretty. The sex hadn’t been bad; he hadn’t liked seeing how pale she was, the pinkness of her nipples. She had been excited and delighted to see him naked, though, and he had not worried with her the way he had with the drow elves.  
He knew he was supposed to hate surface elves--fairies--he just wasn’t very specific on the “why”. When he had been a child, “because” and a switch had been reason enough. Now that he was grown, he disliked them on principle with a bit of personal disgust, but had no real reason to dislike them. In his mind, “reason” had little to do with it. They were from a vile place that made their skin pink and their hair dark. They acted strangely and were too tall. They made him uncomfortable.  
With his own kind, he had to learn, and be more careful in his approaches. He never approached drow women, for one, which he judged to carry too much risk. He felt he could lust after them all he wanted, privately, but for sex, he exclusively chose men. He never got completely undressed, and it was frustrating, until he devised ways around it. It was easier, sometimes, if he put on a jacket and bound his breasts and flirted with them as if he were male, then kept much of his clothing on--you don’t need to strip for only oral. That was easier, even if not as fulfilling.  
Aestith didn’t know what Bellan thought of him and he had no intention to actually ask. Maybe she thought all drow elves were like this now--if only. Maybe she thought it was only him, though, and had simply never cared about his sex. Why should she? It wasn’t her business.  
Bellan did think that the drow, compared to other elves, were much closer to a “proper height”. She would say, What do they need to be so tall for? To better hit their heads on the ceilings?  
“Finished,” Bellan said. “Now just shrug out of that and I’ll teach you how to hem it.”  
“Aren’t you doing it for me?” Aestith teased.  
She rapped her knuckles against his hip. He hopped off of the wooden box. She said, “If you have an opportunity to learn something, don’t shirk the opportunity just because someone else is willing. Now wriggle out of that. There we go.” She took the dress from him and moved into the parlor room. He sat and watched her sew. She made basting stitches along the hem with her needle and thread to hold it in place, but even he knew that it wouldn’t stay. He got the hang of it after a moment, and took the sewing from her. Bellan fully expected him to have it finished in a single candlemark--a herculean task. It took him most of the night and the stitches were far from straight. He was able to work through his Trance state if he relaxed and moved slowly, leisurely.  
He had taken to spending some time meditating, because it calmed and centered him. He was still homesick, but remembering he wasn’t truly alone eased the pain.  
Elves don’t dream. He had been told that since he was a child, though he often suspected that the ones touting that just didn’t remember dreaming. Why should they? You live long enough, you can’t remember everything, and childhood is so hazy and nothing makes any sense about it in retrospect. But he slept, not because he needed to, but because he actually enjoyed the activity, or lack thereof. Sleeping carried him off somewhere where his body wasn’t betraying him, where he wasn’t out of any control of his life, where he wasn’t afraid that his sisters might hurt him for the slightest transgression. Sleep was just a way to escape. It was why he enjoyed reading novels too--which was something that Descaronan had always sniffed at. She thought that if someone were going to read, it should be war tactics or instruction on uses of poisons or suchlike. His other sisters would quietly agree with her on such points--no one had time for such trifles as reading for leisure. Except Amalette.  
Aestith missed home. He missed Virabel’s sayings that made snippets of wisdom easy to remember and the way she’d sniff and turn up her nose at sweets. She had said, Chocolate masks the flavor of anything, Aestith. If you want to poison someone, use chocolate. He missed Amalette’s singing and how she would ask him to brush her beautiful hair. She would read a book out loud, and he would stand or sit behind her, slowly brushing out her hair. One thousand strokes until it gleamed like a torch. He even missed Haeltania; how she would sit at her vanity or her desk and carefully apply powders and paints while he polished her shoes.  
‘How do I look, Aestith?’ She looked fit to be a goddess, and he had loved the way her normally smoke-grey lips were painted a red like a brilliant gemstone, or blood. ‘It’s too bold, isn’t it?’  
He had wanted to tell her that it wasn’t, that she was probably the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, that the red made her lips stand out, that no one could help but to notice her, but she wiped it off with a sigh.  
He had never gotten along with Descaronan; they cared about very different things and he was better at magic than with a spear, so he wasn’t much use to her. Yet he missed how she would rouse him and drag him off hunting with her, saying she had need of his particular talents, even when he had known it was because she thought he needed the practice. She was like a warrior queen from some distant land, wholly different from her other sisters. She had no interest in her hair or painted lips, no talent for singing or wise sayings. She was a warrior, born and bred. She scared him, and he respected her talent. Desarandian he scarcely even saw, much less interacted with; she didn’t care to have him underfoot in the forge and he didn’t like being there anyway. But watching from a perch in the rafters above her, the way she waded among the workers like a pike in a pond or took up the hammer herself or criticized some slave about the bellows--she was a master of her craft.  
And Jaalie. He could only remember her covered in blood, bleeding from a gut wound that would take marks to die from. And he had left her because he had been scared. Jaalie, who had died so young she still had a milk name, nearly of an age with him. He missed her most of all. He missed her smirks and her little jokes. He missed running errands for her and being part of something whole, rather than an estranged intersection of spider silk.  
Bellan expected to find Aestith still sewing when she woke; he was gone, the dress neatly folded.  
#  
He walked for half the bell before he stopped. He knew, somewhere deep in his marrow, that the Underdark was close enough nearly to taste. If he kept walking, simply kept going, he could follow the easy trading routes back. He could be home within the turn. His legs felt weak at the thought.  
Then what, Aestith? Go back to stuffing himself into layers and binding his breasts? Back to butchering his hair and carving up his arms like a roast? Just so they could kill him for deformity in due time, or else for fear of him social climbing?  
He folded his arms under his breasts. Aestith’s fingers bit into the flesh of his arms. An old, angry hurt rose to the surface like a fish after an insect. He felt cheated. He was cheated out of his childhood, out of his home. Cheated out of his family and his entire life. Nothing had ever gone right, had it?  
His eyes watered. It wasn’t fair.  
He pressed his back to the rock wall and slid down the side. He shifted and pushed his legs against his chest, hugging them close to himself. Nothing was fair. His body was bad enough, but why Jaalie? He didn’t even want Virabel to die, not really. It didn’t matter that she was trying to kill him; he didn’t want her to die either. Every death hurt his family, was a blow to the Rix and their place in society. His family had lost three members all at once. Where there had been seven, there was now four. He wondered who was head of the family now, if his sisters would fight over it and leave the family even smaller, or if they would come to an agreement. They’d probably kill Virabel’s daughter, come to think of it, before they turned on one another.  
In our blood, victory. A family saying, which essentially meant that in his bloodlines and his family, there was victory. Each member was a pillar holding a ceiling; it weakened with every destroyed supporting pillar. Similarly, it also meant that installing a pillar where it was useless was wasteful.  
He shouldn’t be here. He didn’t belong here. He belonged at home, and he was angry at himself for running away. He was angry with Virabel for organizing the trip, and angry with her for attacking him and possibly killing Jaalie. And he was angry with Jaalie for wanting to go on this doomed, stupid venture, and angry at her for dying. He was angry at his mother for getting pregnant shortly after he was born and dying. He was even angry at Lolth, for doing this to him.  
He covered his face with his hands. “I don’t want to be your chosen one. I just want to go home,” he whispered, half in prayer. He saw no reason why she should answer him, or respond in any way; she never had before. Save once, and that was on her terms, and certainly in response to nothing he had said. He wasn’t even certain he hadn’t hallucinated it. More likely, she’d punish him in some way, for insolence no doubt. For falling into despair in his personal struggles instead of overcoming them. “And I’d deserve it,” he muttered.  
A spider dropped down on a long, single thread. He couldn’t see the smirking lips that meant Lolth was watching, so he assumed she wasn’t. The spider alighted on his elbow, where she paused for a moment. He caught her before she skittered off and let her run over his hand, then turned his hand so she ran again, one to the other. Flip again, move his other hand close. Flip. Over and over. It seemed so pointless. No matter what he did, the spider acted predictably, always perseveringly in one direction. Then, unexpectedly, it stopped.  
She sat on his knuckle, unmoving but not biting him either. She took a tentative step forward. Gently, he moved his hand to the cave floor, but she made no move to retreat from him. She sat. It seemed so strange that after her ordeal of temporary capture and struggle that she should be so reluctant to leave, or did she think it was a trick like the times before? She would move to another surface, only to have that one, too, rotate and shift her back to the beginning again, over and over. Did she think anything, for that matter?  
It didn’t matter what Aestith wanted, when it came down to it. Lolth had selected him out of everyone else; what right did he have to complain? There was only one feasible path he could take. Any other was a drop off into empty space and a long way down. It was still an option. Turning away was always an option. He had a choice--or the illusion of one anyway. He could either rise or fall. He just wished he knew why it had to be him. Why couldn’t it be someone else? Someone more suited to this. He wasn’t the best at magic, nor at weapons of any kind. He wasn’t the smartest or the most well-connected. He liked baking and reading. He wanted desperately to please Lolth, and his family, but that willingness was all he had to give. And even that was fading with his own despair.  
The sound of a turning wheel made him jump. The spider fled. He rose to his feet and darted into a side passage. He watched the wagon roll past, on to the town ahead of him. He waited a long time, then slowly walked after it. He told himself it was coincidental, but it was drow-make, and he was lonely and he knew what he was doing.  
It took a few candlemarks to make it to the next village. The cart arrived well ahead of him, and they seemed to have decided to stop, at least for a while. That was fine. Aestith wanted company. He had to stay on the path Lolth had placed him on, but he still had the freedom to make choices along the way.  
Staying carefully out of sight, he looked for anyone he might recognize. Or, more accurately, who stood a chance of recognizing him. Most of the caravans were from the surface. Trading with the drow ran certain risks and reaped high rewards, but they didn’t usually want them anywhere near their villages. If the dwarves traded with them at all, it was well away from townsquare. They didn’t trade, and it seemed like they were only on their way elsewhere, boldly coming near to the town. Made sense. There were only so many caverns the wagons could travel on, and drow didn’t raid so much these days--or did it in remote areas and left no survivors and no traces. He counted them as he went about it, but it was a small caravan.   
He stopped suddenly and darted around a corner with a shiver. It was one of the boys who had caught him in the alley. His fingers curled. How dare he come here. It felt like a violation. Aestith couldn’t go to Enainsi, but his tormentors could come here? His jaw clenched so tight it hurt.  
The boy, more a man now, turned to someone calling for him. They had opened a small cask. Aestith’s reddened eyes narrowed, and he waited.  
#  
The world had gone hazy around the edges, like one of Esa’s grandmother’s watercolor paintings. There was always too much blue in them, but the woman had liked them. Or, perhaps more accurately, she had enjoyed telling the tale of how she acquired them--raiding, in a word. She liked to talk about her raiding days.  
Esa didn’t have tales like that, not yet. His elders still considered him too young. They claimed he’d lose his head on the surface, not know what to do with himself. He knew what to do with himself. It was easy. You overpower your opponent. Life was simple like that. There was no reason to make it complicated.  
While he didn’t much like the life of a guard on a merchant caravan, it didn’t pay too badly. And, once he proved himself, maybe he could convince a raiding party to take him on. In the meantime, there were the occasional perks.  
She had just appeared, from what Esa could tell. She wasn’t part of the caravan anyway, and was dressed a bit strangely. Esa couldn’t really decide if she were pretty or not; some expressions she made gave her almost masculine definitions. And she was so small, petite even. It made her look masculine, except her blouse, the laces loose. She had removed a jacket. He could almost see the pointed tips of her breasts under it. She was looking up at another, blinking long lashes darker than her charcoal skin. She smiled at something he said and tossed her head. She glanced toward Esa, and her gaze lingered. The smile pulled until he saw a glint of bone-white teeth that promised to bite. She hooked a stray lock of hair behind one pointed ear. Her fingernails were carefully cut to manicured points.  
Then she looked away.  
Esa’s lips twisted into a frown and he wandered over to them, making a show of getting another cup. He was slow about it, listening for an opening where he might insert himself into the conversation.  
“... The past decade,” the male said.  
The woman tilted her head to one side. “Tell me of your travels--what have you seen that was most beautiful?”  
Esa murmured, “You.”  
The woman’s grey eyes flicked toward him, then back to the man as if she hadn’t heard him. The man described some landscape that bored Esa, but the woman only nodded him on as if descriptions of mushroom forests was actually engrossing.  
Esa interjected, “Are you traveling here yourself?”  
The man flinched at Esa’s comment. “Excuse him, my lady. He’s drunk. I shall see him off.”  
But the woman looked Esa over and smiled slowly. “Allow me to perform this simple task.” She looked back at the man. “I pray you see many more such places. Perhaps I shall listen to another of your tales at a future date.” She looked at Esa. The man’s eyes flicked from one to the other and he subserviently removed himself.  
The woman took Esa’s cup, half drank, and refilled it. She gave it back to him and took him by the elbow. They weren’t walking to their camp around the wagon, though. Esa was almost giddy. The woman said little at all, only walking steadily, away from the encampment and the village. Somewhere alone. They stopped at the edge of the encampment. He saw one of the guards he had met on this venture grin at him. He grinned back. Esa’s teeth were the pitch shade of his own bones.  
She turned toward him. Running a finger from the base of his neck down his chest, she said, “You wait for me.” She pushed against him and nodded down the path. He could scarcely keep from staring down her shirt, but he looked where she indicated. “Over there.”  
He stepped toward the place she indicated, and she turned her back to him. It wasn’t his place to question a woman, however. And anyway, he was eager to serve her. He quaffed down the rest of the ale. It dribbled down his chin and he swiped it off with his sleeve. Gripping the mug tightly in one hand, he stumbled over the rocks. Why had she pointed him down here? He had a tent. He thought about walking back and trying to change her mind, but quickly thought better of it; she was a woman.  
He tripped over a shelf of rock and caught himself, dropping the mug. He stumbled forward, then looked back for the mug. He caught his ankle in a small hole and fell backward. He landed first on his ass, then slid and smacked his back against the rock. He scrambled upright, earth falling around him.  
He reached for a handhold to help himself up. He grabbed at the cave wall. It seemed to break, and he coughed. He gagged and fell to his knees. Something seemed to hiss. He choked. Powdery dust floated in the air. His eyes widened. The mushrooms!  
He scrambled to his feet, then slipped drunkenly. He fell against the cave wall, breaking more of the spores. He fell, and crawled, scrambling madly away, choking and gasping. Then collapsed.  
#  
Aestith stayed only long enough to find out what had happened to the son of a bitch. To everyone else’s eyes, Aestith had told him not to go over there, then had wandered back to the camp to get his own ale. Esa had made such a racket dying that Aestith wasn’t even the first to find him; one of the other guards did.  
Aestith had commented, “What an idiot.” Then he had left. He was exhausted by the time he returned to Bellan’s house, but more than happy. He rested and ate. Bellan asked him why he seemed so pleased with himself, and Aestith only smiled and said, “I’m coming to peace with my situation.”  
The death of one of his tormentors, even a minor one, did indeed calm him. Even such a small act of vengeance filled him with a peace he only ever achieved through meditation, but he wished he had been able to ritually sacrifice him. He wanted to, felt like the man even deserved it after what he had tried to do to Lolth’s chosen, even if she had not truly chosen him yet at the time. He remember the cleric—Ondalia. Or had she?  
He lied down, intending to sleep, but the older he got, the less able to he was. It wasn’t really something elves needed to do. He tossed and turned for a bit and finally surrendered to his heritage and entered the Trance state. He missed dreaming.  
When his mind wandered, he let it go from picture to picture, bouncing around wisps of memory. It wasn’t as interesting as a dream, and he was bored.  
The dark pressed around him. He felt the sticky silk of webs against his skin. No words were given to him, but he saw an image; a ritual sacrifice. It took him a long moment to understand it, because the child was a girl, and then he saw the stitches on the belly, its sickly, dying pallor. This was one of his younger sisters, the ones who had slain his mother.  
The priestess delicately carved into the infant’s forehead. It screamed and tried to fight, but it was too sick and weak to thrash much. They might have at least given it something to incapacitate it; it was an infant, and a girl at that. He hated the piercing sounds it made when it cried. But the woman carved out the symbol.  
Aestith watched as if through the eyes of Lolth’s statue above it.  
The knife blade touched its forehead. It was held parallel, perfectly still. Then it plunged into the infant’s soft, squishy skull. He watched as she continued the ritual in blood, then prayed.  
A sense of calm washed over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drow Fun Facts: Male drow are smaller than female drow. Aestith is 5'0" and weighs about 110 pounds.


	8. Home

The “junk cart” looked like anything else that dwarves made. It had been built to be sturdy and to last, with little regard to aesthetics. It had been repaired and pieces had been replaced from other broken carts until none of the original likely remained. Every joint and greased axle looked to be made of a different material. It offended Aestith’s elven eyes.

It was so horrifically ugly and visually assaulting that he could not help staring at the monstrosity. It was like some great, hideous beast lumbering toward him with its jaw freakishly agape, but it was too impossible to really exist. In the back of the cart, piled in trunks and boxes or drawers situated to be opened from the side of the cart, jingled an assortment of items. Old and used, discarded and abandoned or plucked from decayed bodies all around the caves.

Children mobbed the cart clamorously, showing things they wanted to trade. A pouch of marbles that, for the child, had lost its luster, or a set of dice that didn’t quite bring the same luck, or perhaps a doll missing a button eye. They went through a wooden chest hunting for treasures to exchange. The adults looked through scraps of leather and cloth, old clothes and boots, and other such things.

Aestith waited until most of the crowd had dissipated, and looked himself, because the thing was so damned ugly he couldn’t believe it actually existed. He had no intention of actually looking through the scavenged items, but something in one of the open boxes glinted. The shades of heat and warmth he associated with “vision” had a hole in it, as if something was drawing his attention. The cool shades of the box of knives and daggers nearly eclipsed something slightly warmer than the rest, green instead of the cool blue. He knelt, idly curious and with nothing better to do.

He sorted through the box. Here and there, an old blade had magnetized and stuck oddly to another. He pulled them apart gingerly, wary of rust to the ones unsheathed, quietly irritated that the dwarf would do this. Weapons should be gently taken care of, not thrown in a box, and certainly not unsheathed and covered in rust!

Then Aestith thought,  _ What an interesting lesson for the unwary to learn. _

He removed the last knife from the thing he sought and gingerly lifted the warm one from the box. He let the others shift back to where they had been.

He almost dropped the knife when he saw what it was, then caught it before he fumbled it. The blades were rusted and more than one was broken. It was tarnished and dirty. The duergar had probably found some part of it unearthed and had to dig it out at some point. It was a cleric’s ceremonial knife, drow-make.

He ran a thumb over the spider. It was old, probably an older model than was used now, and it looked like it had been custom-made. The spider formed the crossguard and the hilt was a naked drow female. He thought two rubies had once been her eyes. He rubbed the head of the spider, finding empty sockets where it, too, had once had eyes.

Someone had poured a fair amount of money into it. He imagined some Matron Mother having it forged, unique to her family. Then she or someone down her line had lost favor with the Spider Queen, and now here the weapon was. Discarded and lost. The idea of something being lost for ages and then found again by someone disconnected from it with no knowledge of its history fascinated him in a way that Bellan said was “romantic” in the classic sense of the word, owing nothing to the amorous meaning it now held. He had used to have a collection of such artifacts, in Enainsi. Jaalie called it his “junk collection”. Virabel had told him,  _ Aes, you like that shit because it reminds you of yourself. _ She had meant it to be insulting, but he had been just young enough that it had gone over his head. These days, it wasn’t even insulting; it was just true.

His thumb ran up her figure, over her face. He rose, idly looking into the other boxes, then he went to the dwarf who owned the ridiculous cart. He shrugged and said, “I suppose this will do.”

The dwarf glanced at it. “Remind you of home, eh?”

Aestith looked at him blankly. “Remind me of what, pray tell? I scarcely remember it.” It was a lie, but an easy one to come to his lips, for who really remembers their childhood? He had spent such a brief period of his life there, after all.

The dwarf eyed him critically for a moment, then glanced again at the knife. He made a face and hummed and hawed at it. “It’s an Underdark blade, so…” He scratched his beard and named a figure that was simply too high.

And Aestith shrugged and looked at it again. He made a face. “Blade? I wouldn’t call it a blade so much as a bit of metal held together with rust.”

The dwarf appraised the knife as if he had not really looked at it the first time. He lowered the price marginally and explained, “The hilt is still in excellent condition.”

Aestith snorted. “Hardly, look at the eyes.”

They went back and forth several times and eventually, Aestith set the knife down and turned. The dwarf named a much more reasonable price then and Aestith paid it with a deep sigh, taking care to act as if this were some great favor he were doing the scavenger, rather than to let his pleasure show.

He took the knife to the smithy and asked the smith if there was anything she could do. Her eyes lit up when she saw it and she said she had never actually seen one, but after she looked it over, she said she’d quite happily repair it, for a price that made Aestith’s insides twist.

“That’s simply too high,” he complained.

“You could make payments, Aestith,” Darley said cheerfully.

“But…”

“You could always try to find another blacksmith willing to even touch the cursed thing.” She winked. “But you won’t.”

Darley was significantly less reasonable than the junk salesman, and he did indeed make payments on it, which inspired her to take her time. Dwarves built things to last. They made them durable and serviceable, and when he wanted something aesthetically pleasing, she was delighted to comply--for a price.

_ My grandchildren will be paying off this damned knife. _ Then,  _ If I ever have any. _

That sparked all kinds of disturbing thoughts. Could he actually impregnate a woman? Or… become pregnant himself? The second one was not an option he had ever considered, even when he had found the feminine genitalia; it just wasn’t something that occurred to him. Now, the thought mildly terrified him--and here he had been having sex at every small opportunity. Surely he was too young though? Almalza had bore Virabel when she was scarcely 85 though. His stomach turned. 

But elves didn’t have regular litters like the short-lived races. He thought briefly of his six, technically seven, sisters. The conjoined twins born after him. 10 children, practically unheard of by a drow elf standards--particularly a commoner, even if there had been two sets of twins. He shivered.

Maybe it wasn’t even possible.

_ Goblin read fortune. _

Maybe he should have let the slave read his fortune in his spit. Maybe it could have told him something useful. Or, more likely, it would just tell him something cryptic that could mean anything depending on how he interpreted it and it would just turn into a self-fulfilling prophecy.

#

_ I should have asked for more gold _ , Aestith thought sourly. He plopped down on the rock. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He forced his shoulders to slouch and inspected his fingernails. He drummed his other hand on his knee absently, memorizing every line and carefully filed edge.

He kicked a stone. He leaned back, then rose slowly and sighed noisily. He had done everything short of drawing a big target on his back and bang on a drum.

A stone skittered. He stretched. An insect crunched apart. Aestith dove forward, rolling. The axe swung right where he had been standing. Aestith sprang forward and darted down the passage. Not too fast. It sped behind him.

But not too slow either.

He skidded around a corner. It crawled along the ceiling after him. He imagined its axe cleaving into his back, lifting him off of his feet. It would smash him against the rocks, driving the blade deeper into his spine…

He jumped. The drider, taken aback, jerked. Aestith snatched the rope and yanked hard, using his momentum to propel the trap. He just had to hang on. The bolas tangled. The net twisted around it. It fell from the ceiling. Its own weight broke two of its eight legs.

Aestith grinned. “Hey, it’s like catching a spider in a net.” It had dropped its axe when it fell and the blade cut the drider on the way down. The second one barrelled forward along the wall. It had been injured days before, when the things had attacked the duergar, and it was slow. Aestith kicked the other trap. The javelin shot, arced over the first one, and took the second in the chest. Aestith’s grin threatened to crack his face.

A feat like  _ this _ would have earned him bragging rights for years in Enainsi. Driders were dangerous--you typically hunted them with several other hunters. The older boys had done it all the time, for sport mostly. Not everyone came back alive. He’d have to tell Bellan that the traps had worked flawlessly. He stabbed the first through the chest with the rapier before he went to inspect the second. Definitely dead. With a few hard yanks, he pulled out the barbed javelin. Fearing he may start whistling, he trotted back to the machine. He looked it over again, then he untangled the net. A candlemark of playing bait, five marks to set up this mess.

He looked at the two bodies. And not a bad profit--he may even be able to pay off that knife now, six cycles ahead of schedule no less. He put the net over the ballista and looked at their gear. The axe was shit and the other’s sword was not much better, but its shield was serviceable, particularly by dwarf scavenger standards.

Bellan had told him, because he had been ignorant of it, that in some places, drow kept druergar as slaves--Enainsi mostly used goblins, bugbears, and the like. That didn’t seem sensible to him; dwarves were good at mining, good at building--and drow would use magic to build and then work the druergar to an early, pathetic death in the mines. Aestith wasn’t concerned with trivial issues of morality--he couldn’t understand it. He  _ could _ understand that, over decades, it made more monetary sense to simply trade for the mined goods; slaves were damned expensive. They got sick, they died, they needed housing, food, they needed caring for, they need to be watched, rebellions need to be quashed. Wasn’t it so much easier not to bother? Pay them instead, and just like that, over half the problems are gone and you earned a possible ally. While Bellan thought his logical reasoning was a bit lacking, she seemed to find it relieving that  _ any _ drow thought enslaving her race was unreasonable.

Tentatively, she had asked him,  _ What do you think of drow enslaving goblins? _

Aestith had shrugged dismissively.  _ If we didn’t keep them in one place and put them to work to do something useful, they’d just be terrorizing others, wouldn’t they? _

She had sighed, as if he had missed something, yet still she had seemed heartened, like a farmer finding some harvestable spores on a bad crop. 

Aestith checked the strapping on the traps with a yank. It held firm. Drow wouldn’t use things like this. It was bulky and ugly, a mechanical invention--but it was so useful! If all the druergar were slaves, they wouldn’t have been able to make it. So many skills gone to waste. Not to mention he wouldn’t have been able to kill  _ two _ driders in one go. He grinned to himself. Qelkan would be pleased to hear of it.

He cut his evidence of the kill from the bodies and stuffed it in a sack. He strapped the machine together and went to find where he had penned up the rothe. Fortunately, it was still there, and unfortunately, just as obnoxious as before. It turned its head from him and snorted, snuffling at the lichen.

“Look, I don’t like you either, but the sooner we work together, the sooner we can be rid of one another,” Aestith coaxed it, pulling on the harness. Throwing all of his meager 100 lbs of weight against it, it moved its head slightly to look at him, snorted, and looked back. Aestith sagged.  _ I can kill two goddamned driders at once and can’t get one stupid rothe to move. _

He frowned, then changed his tone to something syrupy, “Come on, you stupid animal. This way.” It looked at him and took a step forward nervously. Rallied, Aestith tugged again on the harness. “This way, steaks. Come on.” It took a few steps, then it scented the blood and its nostrils flared. It huffed and shook its head irritably. Aestith, exasperated, growled, “You dumb beast of burden--Fuck!” It yanked free of his grip and lumbered back to the lichen patch.

Aestith wondered how angry Qelkan would be if he just killed the thing.  _ Yeah, and drag that damned ballista all the way back. _

He pinched the bridge of his nose, then brightened. He clicked his tongue and cooed at it until he got its attention. He raised the small cube of sugar. It shuffled back toward him, tongue lolling from its mouth, which someone had once told him was a possible sign of inbreeding. It reached toward his hand and Aestith backed up a step. He took several more back and it stopped. Aestith extended a hand, cringing. It slathered its long, fat, slobbering tongue over his palm. He gagged, then backed up several more paces before offering another. In this way, he made it back to the cart and it was too preoccupied with a feedbag to notice the blood. He harnessed it and led it back, all the while longing for a bath. He was covered in rothe spit.

When he returned the ballista and the net, then brought the animal back, Qelkan commented, “Well, how about that. Bessie seems to like you.”

“Yeah,” he said, making a face. “We… bonded.”

“Good to see you made it back in one piece.”

“There were two, by the way.” He inclined his head to the sack over his shoulder. “I took the stingers, as proof.”

He scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “Come on. I’ll talk to Hopper for ya.”

Qelkan actually opted to stand outside the watchhouse within earshot and listen to Hopper lowball Aestith. Aestith stared at him blankly. He felt like some part of him should be angry, but the act of becoming angry was such a chore that he didn’t. He had expected this to happen. It wasn’t worth the effort of riling his own temper. They expected him to be, well, stereotypical, and he enjoyed watching dwarves become flustered when he wasn’t.

Aestith, instead, opted to calmly state his case, over and over again. It was rather a lot like memorizing lessons when he had been a child, except this one didn’t use a switch as a memory aid. Aestith could happily repeat himself for marks, though Hopper seemed just as inclined to assert that “we agreed on this price, so that’s what you’ll get”.

Qelkan came in and balanced it a bit.

They left, and the old dwarf seemed pleased with himself. “You see the look on his face? Ha!”

Aestith frowned. What an absurd phrase--a dwarf facial expression was all eyes and nose. “What about it?”

Qelkan snorted. “What a miser. Ain’t even his money neither!”

Aestith’s lips formed into a small “o” as he understood. “I see.”

“Did ya?”

Aestith frowned deeply. “I--I mean. It’s just—”

“I swear, Aestith. Somedays you’re sharp as obsidian, and others you’re dull as graphite.”

Aestith wondered if this wasn’t one of Qelkan’s many references to his skin tone. “I must take your word for it, for I am a poor judge of my own character.”

“Been meanin’ to ask, do they just teach you elves to talk like that?”

Aestith blinked. “Pardon me?”

“Oh, you never mind.”

“So you say.” He bid him farewell and left to visit Darley. He had to wait for her to finish hammering something. She dunked it in water to quench it, then removed it before she walked to him.

She grinned. “I know what you’re after. Be right back.” She hurried off, limping when she walked. One leg was shorter than the other. If she were drow, they would have killed her at birth.  _ And lost a very good smith, _ he mused, thinking of his own small deformities. If that was a suitable term. But she wasn’t a drow, and dwarves didn’t believe that their people benefited from the competition so prevalent in drow society. Far be it from him to suggest that maybe a better smith could have emerged with a physically perfect body.

These thoughts faded as she returned, beaming. She carried a piece of oiled leather, folded over to hide the item. She stood before him and looked from side to side, then flipped the leather back.

His breath caught in his lungs and he nearly choked on it.

In the low light of the lanterns and the smith’s fires, the black bone handle gleamed. The ivory hair cascaded down the figure’s back in thin, intricate tendrils. Her nipples were taught. She writhed as if in either pain or ecstasy, or maybe both. The face was crafted with such exquisite detail he wondered if it were not a real drow’s likeness, maybe the original bearer of the weapon. Fastened in the carving’s eyes were two small rubies. The spider, too, had eight eyes of varying size. The legs extended into blades, each with the bluish, wavey quality of well-folded steel. He felt, almost, as if he should avert his eyes.

“Making a sheath for that was a real piece of work, tell you what,” she said.

He jerked his head toward her face as if he had forgotten she was there. “Hmm?”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s pretty, but you act like you’ve just fallen in love.”

He tilted his head, brow wrinkling. “What?”

She threw the leather back over the knife. It seemed to break whatever spell had fallen over him. She picked up another bundle and showed him the tooling work. His finger ran lightly over the tooling, crisscrossed in a web of fine leather.

“This is… beautiful, but it’s far more than I—”

She shrugged. “I felt inspired. Anyway, if’n you ask a dwarf to make a repair on a weapon, Aestith, you shouldn’t expect that we’ll go halfway.” She glanced at the small bulge under the leather. “Even for something as wicked as that.”

His eyebrows arched. “Wicked?”

She stared at him. “Don’t tell me you’re ignorant, Aestith.”

His brow wrinkled. Ignorant of what? That Lolth called for rivalry and chaos, sacrifice, and struggle? Wasn’t that life itself? Wasn’t every aspect of life a struggle? Even animals struggled. Even animals made their own sacrifices. Rivalry kept one another in balance, it promoted competition, which was better for everyone. Animals benefited from such things too. As did businesses, competitions, contests--why not people?

Why, the master tanner refused to train an apprentice because he didn’t want the competition! Aestith could see an organized chaos in nearly everything--children at play, politics, animals. Rock and earth were predictable and followed a pattern, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t chaotic for the insects living in it when the earth surged and the rock melted to magma.

What they called virtues held no place in his society; everyone else thought Lolth some being of ultimate evil, even while they were guilty of similar things they criticized her for. Hypocrisy infuriated him most of all. He stifled his temper, the sudden surge in him that demanded violence. It wasn’t worth the trouble. So the red flashed in his eyes but a moment and was gone when he blinked. He smiled. “I don’t know what you speak of.” He overpaid her, feeling he had little choice, and looked again at the hilt. “The rubies are—”

“Daft elf,” she scoffed. “Ain’t rubies.”

He looked up. “But—”

“Ya see a red gemstone and they’re all rubies to you.” She snorted. “Can’t tell sandstone from soapstone, I bet.” She sighed. “It’s bixbite.”

He frowned. “Oh.”

Darley threw up her hands. “Ya don’t even know what that is, damn it--don’t act disappointed.” She scowled. “And they claim dark elves know a gem as well as most dwarves. Bah!”

He scowled in turn. “I was a child when I left, and anyway, I don’t mean—”

“They’re emeralds.”

He paused. “Oh.” He looked again at the emeralds. “I thought those were green.”

“Ha!” she stomped away, muttering something about elves being ignorant of the earth they lived in. He had to concede; he was ignorant of many things. He hid the dagger under his jacket, the weight already as familiar to him as if he had always had it.

“Aestith,” a dwarf said, in an antagonizing drawl.

Aestith kept walking. Tawny was a bitch, and wasn’t likely to amend her ways anytime soon.

Tawny said, “Typical elf. Aren’t you so high and mighty, you scrawny little runaway.” She turned to who Aestith assumed was a visiting relative. “Picked up on the road, they said. Like a wounded animal. Should have been left to die.”

Aestith’s fingernails pressed into the meat of his palm. The brief anger he had felt earlier rose to the surface. He said nothing. Hearing someone else voice his own darker thoughts somehow lent them a validity he usually refused to grant them.

“It’s funny, isn’t it. Seeing a drow like that.”

His jaw clenched. His teeth clamped down on his tongue to keep it still.

She laughed. “Oh, she’s mad! Look at her eyes!”

“It’s scary,” one of her friends said quietly, trying to avoid him.

Aestith’s stomach tightened and he turned slowly. Something welled in him, something deep and unfathomable. “You can say as much as you want about me, Tawny. But you leave my people out of it.”

“Your people? The ones who were so awful you had to run away from them? Some people.”

Aestith bristled at their giggles. He wanted to lash out violently, to scream and hurl insults. A power built and climbed inside him, like a torrent wanting to break free. He wanted to unleash it, to strike Tawny down and hurt her. He could. The power was there, at his beckoning and it would answer. He reigned it back, not in horror; it wasn’t the time or the place. Tawny was a bully, but retaliating by hurting her would be an escalation she did not deserve nor invite. There were other ways if he would but look for them. He reigned the impulse back. “My reasons for leaving are my own, though I may say it had little and less to do with with the power I wield.” He smiled pleasantly. His eyes gleamed red. “I was found half-dead, yes, but how long would you survive on your own in the Underdark, Tawny? With no supplies, and no weapons in the dark, all those creatures around you. Miles from everyone you’ve ever known and utterly alone. Would you scream, I wonder, when they find you, or would it be a welcome end after the hunger and the thirst?” He turned on his heel before they replied, but he could hear them whispering as he turned.

He grinned to himself. Words held power. It was why so much of magic required them.

Tawny and her friends spoke in hushed whispers about Aestith. Not everyone whispered about him lately, but there were certain silences when he passed that had not been there before, or a delighted grin and elbow toward a friend.

What was more amusing, they weren’t talking in hushed rumors about how he had murdered pregnant women and impaled babies on spikes; they whispered instead about how he must have wielded such terrible power that his own family had chased him out but been too afraid to kill him. The more he denied all of it, the more they seemed to believe it. Seeing him help with menial chores did absolutely nothing to alleviate these rumors. They only claimed that he “wanted them to believe he was perfectly ordinary”.

Virabel had sat as she wound a strip of salve-soaked cloth around one of his hands; he had cut himself on a blade. He had been small and he barely remembered why, but she had said,  _ Aestith, if you don’t know when not to use a weapon, don’t pick it up in the first place. _

Her lessons were always punctuated by pain for one reason or another, but he remembered them vividly. In contrast, Bellan’s were accented with smiles. He remembered Virabel’s so much more clearly.

He liked the old dwarf. It was odd to him that her marriage was for life--weirder still that they lived together as such. He thought it even weirder when they left him for a turn to go to some kind of family reunion.

“You’re sure you don’t want to go?” Bellan said. “You’re always welcome, Aestith.”

He shook his head. “No. I’ll take care of things here. Go. Have fun. And be careful traveling.”

She nodded uncertainly. “Now, I should have plenty of food in the larder. You just help yourself and keep things tidy while we’re away. Back in a week, before you know it.”

“Aestith will appreciate the peace an’ quiet,” Qelkan grumbled.

Bellan clapped Aestith on the arm. They were a jovial, rather huggy family, but she respected that Aestith endured affection more than reciprocated it. It felt so unnatural and strange to him.

He saw the pair off and wandered back in a slow, meandering pace. A caravan had rolled in. He hung back and watched the people, looking for a face he might recognize, but relaxed by degrees; it was obviously a surface-made thing.

He honestly didn’t think anyone from Enainsi would recognize him anymore. Sometimes, he did not recognize his own reflection. Puberty had come and went and he should have gone through the ceremonies with the others, off to the Academy. He should have done many things by now. Including be killed, he imagined.

He could not be more lonely.

The small house--much smaller than he had ever been accustomed to--felt larger than his family home in Enainsi. There were only so many chores he could do, only so much guard duty he could continuously volunteer for until they sent him home. Then he sat in front of the cold hearth, falling slowly into a Trance state, then left it feeling even more lonely. He didn’t think he could ever live alone. How could anyone stand it? It was so quiet, so empty.

Unable to bear the stillness any longer, he left the house and walked the long road down to the next village. You could get lost down here, in the tunnels. You could be lost for years if you were extremely unfortunate--and lucky enough not to die of starvation or dehydration or something else. Perhaps just fortunate enough to have some middle-aged dwarfs take pity on a drow youth?

He had asked Bellan, only once, what possessed her to take him, rather than leave him to die. He understood that some drow occasionally traded with them, but he also understood that other drow elves had a deserved reputation for raiding, or they’d fight one another. Or simple age-old grudges or any number of other reasons. She had only shrugged and said,  _ You were a child. _

There was a theory that nurture could beat out nature. Perhaps that is what she assumed she could do, but he was too old for that, certainly. And anyway, he didn’t want to act like a dwarf. What did that even entail anyway? He had been with them for years, and he certainly didn’t know. Quaffing ale and belching?

He could wander into the bowels of the Underdark. He could pop out in some community no one knew him, say he was someone else. Those who left their cities were ignored, not hunted. He didn’t have to keep on this path with the dwarves, did he? But he knew if he did that, it would only be a matter of time before he convinced himself that it was safe to see his sisters, and he didn’t think he had learned enough. Or at least, if Lolth thought him ready, she’d send him down. And she hadn’t. Or did he need to decide he was ready on his own?

He stopped then, plinking on the strings of some minor decision that could have major consequences. He turned around, and went back to what what would never be home but what he stubbornly insisted had to be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes about Aestith's anatomy: Part of Aestith's intersex anatomy is hormonal and circumstantial--he believes providential--though it is also because in vitro, he reabsorbed (cannibalized) his twin sister. When he hit puberty, his body over-produced testosterone, which causes a flood of estrogen.


	9. Nier

Living with the dwarves was a fascinating anthropological study to Aestith. They would never really accept Aestith, just as he never really accepted them. 

However, over years, their outright disgust grew to only a displeasure and then to a good-natured disdain. Bellan was right; Aestith’s presence gave her neighbors a good scandal to discuss and they only seemed to approve of it. If something went missing, it was  _ that drow _ . And if it turned up later, well he had only given it back because they had been loudly complaining. If someone fell and sprained their ankle, it was  _ that drow _ . Nevermind that Aestith was rarely even nearby. Some dwarves would comment to this nature, saying that they had never seen Aestith do anything more vile than commit the terrible sin of reading in dim lighting, but this was only cause for more gossip.

Bellan thrived on it, alternately fanning and dousing the flames wherever was convenient. Qelkan had little use for it, beyond the ability to tell tales and getting free drinks at the local pub. For Aestith’s part, he found his role as shifting from a harbored criminal to a roadside oddity. He wasn’t certain if this was a positive change or not. He almost preferred it when they were afraid of him. 

A gaggle of dwarf children stood in a cluster, whispering about Aestith. He kept his eyes on the book and did his best to ignore them. Aestith actually liked children, so long as he wasn’t responsible for them; they saw the world differently than adults, frequently spoke their minds, and didn’t know enough to fear. Moreover, they were easy to manipulate.

Finally, one of the children strode up to him. She shook in her boots, but she raised her sliver of a chin and said, “Is it true?”

“Anything could be true, for a given value of ‘true’, I suspect,” Aestith said, turning the page.

Deep furrows creased her smooth brow as she stewed over his words, then shook her head as if to chase them back--if a drow elf said something confusing, it might be a curse, after all. She looked back at her compatriots, who waved her encouragement. She took a breath. “That dark elf children are plunged into the depths of the earth, where the forges burn hot and you come out blackened with your hair all turned to ash!”

He suppressed an amused grin and lifted his head. One eyebrow cocked. “Well, that is fictional nonsense worthy of a novel.” He winked. “One might note, however, that it is indeed  _ infants _ we lower into it. In a special basket. The languid ones return to us as naught but little piles of ash.”

Her eyes widened to discs and her jaw dropped. “Do you remember goin’ into it?”

He shook his head. “No, of course I don’t. Might you possess any memory of your infant months? But ‘tis clearly a fact. Else, how might my skin get so dark?”

Her nose wrinkled. “But if’n I burn meself, an’ I have, that don’t happen.”

He allowed himself a small smile. “The fire was begun with a magic spark,” he explained.

She rolled her eyes. “That’s what everyone says when they don’t want to explain it,” she huffed. She looked him up and down, then, quite boldly, took his hand and inspected it. He allowed her. She looked at each carefully manicured fingernail, the palms of his hands and the small lines in them. “You’re a rotten liar. Me mam says liars is bad.”

He tilted his head. “Liar?”

She dropped his hand and pointed at him accusingly. “You was born that way, mistress. You shouldn’t lie to children.”

He lifted the book to hide the grin splitting over his lips. He said, “Well, how might you discern that what I said ‘twas a lie? What if it were true?”

She stuck out her pink tongue. “If’n they did that to infants, the infants would cry. So your tongue would be black.”

He shrugged. “Then perhaps I didn’t cry. Some drow elves do have black tongues. And teeth.”

She stared dubiously at him. “How do their teeth turn black if they haven’t grown in yet?”

His eyebrows arched in surprise. “You’re a clever child, aren’t you?”

She nodded. “Me mam says.”

He lowered the book back to his lap. “Well, you found me out. My skin is dark, just like yours isn’t.”

She considered this, then nodded. “Stands to reason.” She started to turn, then looked back at him. “You’re not as scary as people say.”

He tilted his head. “Do you want me to be?”

She glanced at her friends, then turned back to him and whispered, “Could you?”

The corner of his lips pulled into a grin. He winked, then yelled, “So get back, or it’s you I shall lower into the forges of the earth and we shall see if you darken or burn to ash!”

She squealed in delighted terror and fled back to her frightened friends. They ran, catching her screams like a pox and, giggling, sped away from him.

Aestith smiled to himself.  _ Children, _ he thought,  _ were not as easily dissuaded as adults. Neither were they so prone to believing lies. _ Too, he appreciated their bluntness. Simultaneously, he thought that interacting with them made interesting case studies. Non-drow acted so fascinatingly odd.

_ East.  _ The voice was faint, so he almost wasn’t certain if he had caught a snippet of nearby conversation or not, but the voice was in Undercommon, and quite feminine--and he recognized it, or thought he did.

He needed no provocation. Lolth could tell him to hang himself because it would please her and he would only pause to find the rope. He packed a light pack and explained to Bellan he would be leaving for a short while. He took the drow dagger with him.

Aestith walked on the narrow path, only branching if one were more east than the other or there was some indication, such as a spider, that he should go one way rather than the other. He stopped infrequently, though came across a kobold once. Alone, it shrieked in terror of him and scampered off. They were usually in groups, so he hurried away from it. He worried that they were tracking him. They were cowardly ordinarily, but they’d gang up on someone alone.

He must have walked for another hour or more after that. He had to climb down a space once or twice, nearly got stuck. For the first time, he wondered what he could possibly be after. Why would Lolth send him down here? It wasn’t his place to question, but it still seemed bizarre.

He couldn’t remember seeing a spider or anything of the sort when he heard the words--how did he know he  _ wasn’t _ going insane? He had heard that people could hear voices, ones that weren’t there. Not demons or celestials or gods--just their own brain. And if Aestith’s own body had turned against him, why not that too? His brain was only a bit of meat in the end anyway, so it wasn’t immune to such things. The thought filled him with dread.

It heartened him to think that his own dread and self-doubt may amuse the Spider Queen, which thickened his resolve like flour in a stew.

A groan echoed off of the cavern walls and he stilled. He slunk to one side and edged toward the sound. He peeked around the corner. The cavern formed a deep ravine with the high ceiling covered in long stalactites and pockmarked with holes. A pillar of rock was worn and hewn in such a way that he assumed, at one point, that it had been a statue. Even when the statue was new, it was half-finished and incomplete. Like someone had begun carving it and then their people had moved on or been killed. At the base of the pillar was a slab of crumbling rough-hewn siltstone, likely moved from somewhere else, then abandoned. He wondered why, the way he had wondered about the history of broken, lost things he kept a collection of when he had been younger.

Aestith had a fleeting, heathenous thought that  _ maybe _ drow should keep some form of written history. They didn’t need families, but events would be useful. He frowned at the thought. And then what? You’d have an entire class of--of  _ historians _ who would sit around reading  _ history _ all day and documenting events, then you’d have people start questioning past deeds, which bred philosophy, then you’d have people questioning all of society and society as he knew it would simply collapse or transform. It would make drow more--Aestith shuddered--more like other races, a thought too horrible to fathom. No, no wonder the Spider Queen had, in her wisdom, decided against such things. His curiosity would do no one any good.

A body lay sprawled on the cavern floor. Aestith at first thought it must be dead, but it was actually in a half-sitting position, leaning against a rock. A drow, young enough for his shoulder-length hair to still be white. His leg was split and lay at an angle. His pale eyes were shot with pain and delirium. He could not have been here long, or else the kobolds would have gotten to him, but then, the shortsword under the man’s hand just as likely played a role in that.

It was Nier.

Nier who had watched those boys pull Aestith back. Nier who had been so angry at what Aestith’s lying by ommission that he had tried, in a very roundabout way, to get Aestith killed. He had no way to prove it was Nier, but he had suspected. And now it didn’t matter. It wasn’t revenge or anything as non-drow as justice; Aestith would never have sought vengeance even if he knew for certain. Lolth disapproved of seeking vengeance.

Aestith could not have guessed what Nier was doing all the way out here, or maybe Aestith had taken some shortcut down here and he was farther than he assumed. Frankly, Aestith could not be bothered to care. His eyes flicked away from his ex-almost-lover and alighted on the broken stone altar.

Wordlessly, he walked to Nier. In his delirium, the other at first struck out, but Aestith danced back from him. Nier dropped the shortsword. “Aestith?” he whispered through a parched throat. A grin made his cracked lips bleed. “Is it really you? We thought you were dead.”

Aestith said nothing. He bent and slid his arms under Nier’s armpits and clasped his hands in front of him. He was relatively gentle when he dragged him, and Nier did nothing to prevent him.

Nier babbled, “They said you died with your sister. That it’s your own fault, because you shouldn’t have gone. I shouldn’t have gone.” He whispered the last. “But they said--a raid on the deep gnomes. I was too young to go regular… but do I want to go? Yes, of course. I never saw it. They’ll never find me.”

Aestith stopped just before the altar and took several deep breaths. He shifted, one arm under Nier’s back, the other under his legs. He lifted him, favoring the broken leg. He laid him down on the crumbling slab. He clasped his hands in quick prayer.

Nier continued, “There’s water down here. But I couldn’t reach it. It’s got to be.” Aestith nodded. Nier’s head rolled. His eyes closed. “Never thought I’d see you again.”

Aestith closed his eyes briefly, then the knife flicked into his hand as if summoned. He bent over Nier’s head and carved, delicately, into his dry skin. Nier thrashed at first, even tried to push him away, but Aestith, frustrated, grabbed Nier by the hair and slammed the back of his head down into the stone. Nier jerked, but went still. He was still breathing. Aestith carved out the rest of the design, almost lovingly. Nier’s eyes opened when Aestith pressed the knifetip to the center. Pale grey eyes stared into blue. Nier’s eyes widened.

Nier’s lips parted. A vocule sound escaped his mouth.

The knife plunged down. It split the skull like basalt rock. He continued, methodically painting the remaining portion of the ritual. His heart pounded. He must have made mistakes. There was probably some specific order to each line and segment, some word he should have whispered. He leaned back, finished and uncertain. He clasped his hands and prayed, because he felt he must do something but didn’t know what.

They weren’t words, as such. It was a feeling so strong that it was a word.

_ I _ \--a nameless noun, an impression of self. Imposing and strong, dark and even venomous. It gave the impression of too many legs and too many eyes. 

_ Am-- _ a state this self was, a connecting verb. 

_ Pleased _ \--a feeling that started in the empty pit of his chest and filled him as if he had been starving all his life and only now felt satiated. It welled through him, warm and fulfilled.

He shuddered, a religious ecstasy that was adjacent to orgasm. Suddenly dizzy, he slid downwards. The presence lifted, but left him with its shadow, a satisfaction of a job well done.


	10. Quake

Lolth did not call him again for such a task, though he stayed with the dwarves a long time--ten years, he had been here all together. He thought often of the sacrifice, replaying it over in his head when he was alone. He approved of killing Nier, the way he would approve of crushing a fly that bit. He took a similar pleasure in the act, but it was bits after the initial sacrifice that he found most intriguing.

He had been suspicious that the kobolds were tracking him on the way down from the sacrifice. When he walked back, his suspicions were confirmed, though in an odd way; on the route back, he had to slip through a passage in the rock that opened to a small chamber, then a similar path continued. He had disliked it on the way in. The echoless nature of the room and the way the path twisted made it impossible to see or hear anything ahead. It was suspicious when the kobolds  _ hadn’t  _ ambushed him.

One of them had ran into its own trap as they scampered away from him. Sometimes, he still wondered what they had sensed that he didn’t.

_ Hiding in layers. _

He was determined that he wouldn’t keep hiding. Not forever.

He left Bellan and Qelkan slowly since Nier had died four years ago. With their help, he reshaped a small dead-end down the road into a home, adding a door and some reasonable accommodations. He thus spent less time in the town, which he preferred, though he did still visit his benefactors. He started wandering farther and farther away. Sometimes, he would find something, or kill something of some small value and was able to sell it. In this way, he got by. He repeatedly delved into the Underdark, mostly out of longing to go home, but Lolth gave little and less indication that he was ready for whatever she wanted of him. Not unusual.

He wasn’t unhappy. Often bored silly, horrifyingly lonely, and isolated, yes, but not unhappy exactly. It was nice not having his sisters watching him for mistakes. It was nice doing things because he wanted to, rather than because it was expected of him--even if he was used to portioning out his cooking and baking to feed a household rather than only himself. He discovered, very quickly, that he didn’t actually  _ like _ being alone. With his sisters, he had sought solitude because there was so little of it. Living alone, he was just reminded of  _ how _ alone he was.

When it was unbearable, he took up shifts with the dwarves on guard duty, but he would only ever be on the fringes of their society, he on one side of the river and they on the other.

He tossed the smooth stone with a flick of his wrist. Descaronan had taught him to skip stones. They had been waiting for some game animal--he couldn’t recall what. So much of hunting was just sitting around and waiting, so she had shown him how to hold his wrist, how the stone could skip. She could get it to skip up to seven times. The most he could do, even now, was about four, if the fourth counted because that was when it sunk.

The ripples disturbed the water and the rock frightened the blind fish--but it still sank to the bottom in the end and the ripples would always ease. Lolth would cast him out in the world and he would make his way, but in the end, it was all the same.

He glanced at the stones he had gathered into a little pile by his feet. 

But was that really that different from these stones? In a thousand years, this river may not even be here. The water could carry the stone on, maybe wear it down to sand and spread it over the cavern, maybe carry it down to the magma where the rock could be melted down again and reborn. Or maybe the water would just dry up and it would rest there. Which wasn’t that different from the stones that never were picked up--so maybe it was about the throw, how far it went, the splash it made and the sediment it disturbed.

Or, more likely, he was trying to find metaphor in a simple children’s activity and it had become unnecessarily philosophic.

He had spent more time with the dwarves than he had ever spent with his own people. Was he even really a drow anymore?

Aestith choked at the thought of being  _ other _ . Not fitting in anywhere, not belonging. He was estranged, but he was a part of that, and he wanted to be again.  _ Why can’t I go home? _

Hadn’t he learned enough? Hadn’t enough time passed? What had he really learned here?

He watched the water.

He had learned to wait. He had learned to listen and obey. But those were things he knew before; now they were only reinforced. He closed his eyes for slightly longer than a blink.  _ What else? _ He had learned the value of a smile and a joke to defuse confrontation. He had learned that people were people wherever he went. Drow elves had different ways of doing things, but in the end, dwarves and drow weren’t  _ that _ different, he didn’t think. They had different customs and their bodies were quite different, but that was largely happenstance of birth or cultural indoctrination. Ultimately, everyone got hungry or thirsty, tired, horny, bored. They were all made up of skin and meat.

Drow, apparently, were world renown to be sadistic and cruel, to go on raids burning villages and slaughtering the inhabitants. Frankly, that didn’t sound any different than anything any other race did, so he couldn’t help but wonder why drow were the ones sneered at. Was it because they lived differently than everyone else? Dwarves could be sadistic and cruel, or petty. Tawny was a bully, so she had a touch of those things, but he had seen it active in others. He had gone hunting some predators that had come too close and one dwarf in particular had enjoyed killing the young in the nest. It was a necessary task, but it wasn’t something that required one to take joy in an act that held no victory.

The next reason Aestith learned was all to do with behavior. The drow elves actively claimed and insisted that they were superior. Then again, so did every other race, even if most of them did not claim it so loudly. The sin, he thus perceived, must lie only in the volume of one’s projections. Again, Aestith was lost on a clear answer. 

Perhaps it was their state of civil warfare? Couldn’t be, because so many other races had plenty of civil wars and infighting. Was it the landscape of their politics? Why? He had read dozens of books of surface history and literature, and it didn’t seem all that different to him. If anything, they were in many cases worse. They fractured a powerful house and then took their children away as hostages, or left them bleeding and crippled and no one would answer their pleas for help; drow did, if they survived to make the claim of murder. It wasn’t the drow who invented the term “coup d'etat” after all.

_ The cannablism might be the most likely reason _ , he had thought, but no one ever brought it up if he asked. That could have been because they were afraid to, which he could understand; it was better to fear that something was true, rather than know it to be--sometimes. He would prefer to know the truth.

Then he had heard that it was because of Lolth. He couldn’t get exact answers on why this was, and didn’t understand it exactly. He had read surface books and listened to stories of every atrocity he could imagine done in the name of various gods. Why did they think Lolth was different? Was it her desire to see her followers struggle? He had seen societies, now, where they did not. Their weak and infirm languished in the streets instead of being mercifully killed off as infants. The weak of mind or entrenched in madness were left alive as a burden to society, breeding more feeble-minded children and crazed offspring. Was that better?

The slavery, perchance? Though plenty of cultures kept slaves, and many more habitually killed goblin races. Drow at least let them live. And so what if they slaughtered them in sacrifice? Was it simply more sporting to slaughter them in battle? The end result was the same.

The customs then, though that too was lost to his understanding. Other cultures married, and he had seen  _ that _ horror. But even if they wanted to criticize his culture’s take on procreation, why not criticize another’s polygamy? Other cultures treated their women little better than slaves. Why were they critical of drow for treating the men like that, or was it only that it was because they did that to men?

He felt on the verge of some philosophical breakthrough, then a loud crack made him jump. The stalactite crumbled and fell into the water with a splash. His gaze flickered upwards. The stalactites sang. It was a strange, haunting sound he had only ever heard once before as seismic waves and pulsing vibrations echoed off their formations. His eyes widened. Some primal part of his brain, deep where there were no coherent or even sane thoughts, screamed at him to  _ run _ .

The ground rumbled. He cringed and scrambled from the riverside. He ran, losing his footing twice on the shaking earth. There were no good places to be in a cave at a time like this, mostly because caves were usually quite safe during an earthquake, which meant that on the surface, it was particularly bad. Or maybe it was due to something else--magical in nature perhaps. But if he got his head under dwarven architecture, it was meant to endure this sort of thing.

He had been a child the last time he had experienced similar. Jaalie had grabbed him and brought him to her room. She had held him while he trembled with every violent rumble. At the time, he had thought it was for his sake but it was probably just to keep him from shrieking and getting himself hurt.

It stopped. The suddenness made him pitch forward and hit the ground hard. He skinned one palm in the fall and his ankle hurt when he tried to sit up, but the shaking seemed to have stopped.

_ Idiot _ , he thought.  _ I should have stayed still _ .

There were times to run-- _ Virabel with a knife and a grin-- _ and times to stay still. What had possessed him to try to run during an earthquake? He couldn’t say, only that it was stupid and he wished he hadn’t. Maybe he had thought there might be a cave-in and he didn’t want to be trapped on the wrong side of it. Perhaps he thought he could make it to some safe place down the path?  _ Idiot. _

He rubbed his ankle. It throbbed. He scraped grit from his palm and struggled to his feet. The first step brought an arc of pain shooting up his leg. He gently eased back down and poked at the bone again. It didn’t feel broken. Bruised, and badly sprained perhaps.

He took a long breath and stared straight ahead. He could tear his tunic and bandage it, then lean heavily against the cave walls on his way back. It would take some time. He wanted to limp back to the water and dip his ankle into its cool streams, let the cavefish nibble his toes. But then his foot would just be wet, and he would be no closer to getting home where he could properly look after it and take care of himself.

The bandage would have to suffice--there was nothing else for it. He pried off the large, serviceable boot, so clearly made by a dwarf trying to making something to fit the slender foot of an elf. He rolled down the linsey-woolsey sock and poked again at the ankle. He flinched only a little at his prodding, then sighed deeply as he rubbed it, hoping to ease some of the ache with the blood flow.

He closed his eyes, trying to think of anything other than the pain. Of health, of being whole. Lolth. All his thoughts went back to the goddess, as if there was nothing else for him in his life. Perhaps there wasn’t. And wasn’t a spider the purpose and the beginning of her web? He whispered a prayer.

The pain was gone. He assumed it would begin again when he stood, but when he looked at his ankle, the yellowish, purple tint to his dark skin wasn’t there. The redness on his palm, too, had vanished. Had Lolth healed him?

He prayed, briefly but passionately, then affixed his clothing. Carefully, he continued the way to the small place that was, he told himself temporarily, home. Then walked past it. He wanted to see the town, to make sure Bellan and Qelkan were all right. He imagined they would be. The town was built of limestone, which wasn’t likely to move much.

But suppose it did? If it did move, it would be devastating.

_ If _ , he told himself.  _ Don’t be irrational and speculate. You’ll drive yourself mad. _

He almost smiled. Bellan would tell him,  _ Your hair is white enough as it is--stop worrying about every little thing. _

It was just a remnant of his upbringing, and his paranoia about his body. Perpetual worry was a personality trait by now.  _ And broodiness _ , Qelkan would have added.

_ I don’t brood! _ Aestith would object.  _ I’m thinking. _

_ Then why so gloomy? _

And Aestith would politely accuse him of attributing Aestith’s complexion with gloom and they would laugh. Aestith liked the Duergar; he liked their blunt sense of humor and practicality, and he was grateful to Qelkan and Bellan.

The town was curiously vacant, which filled him with quiet dread. Picking up his pace, he sped to Bellan’s home. It was empty--he checked every room and called out. All of it was intact.

He ran to the well, to the smithy, then he stilled. He gulped down air as if he were drowning, then ran toward the mine.

The path was no longer than usual, but it seemed to grow and stretch, It was like treading his feet through thick warm tar. Dwarves worked feverishly ahead. They hauled out rock on carts, then carted the loads further down the tunnel. Others came running back with the empty carts. Children passed buckets of rock, one to another. Aestith’s legs went weak.

When he had come here, all the dwarves looked much the same. Short, stout persons wrapped in furs and leathers with a beard were frighteningly identical, they had such little variation. But where were Bellan’s beaded mustache, the braids? Where was Qelkan’s short spiky hair and untamable beard?

He wasn’t strong enough to swing a pickaxe, so he joined the line with the younger dwarves, snatching a bucket of rock from one dwarf and passing it to the next set of waiting hands.

The dwarves carried supports down the hall and they parted like commoners to a priestess. The wooden beam was lodged into the space, then they quickly set to work securing it while another team continued attacking the cave-in with picks and shovels.

Dwarves were practical. They would construct a tunnel to last centuries. This one had been under construction, though. The last orc raid had left a column damaged. Then this...

Aestith’s strength was flagging after the first half mark. In twice that time, his muscles ached and the pails slipped on his sweat-streaked fingers. Someone pulled him out of line with a sad shake of her head.  _ Drow _ , she mouthed, less like a curse and more as if she felt sorry for him. And shouldn’t she? Lost and alone, weak of arm and frail. He helped with the water cart instead, ladling water from the barrel and putting it to the other’s lips. No one had time or care to wonder if he had put poison in it, or even that the hand that gave them the water was dark as coal.

Not all the miners had died, though many were unconscious or sick with want of air. He looked for the braids, for the spiky hair.

A dwarf, wheezing, knelt beside another. He touched Qelkan’s shoulder. “Is she—?”

The dwarf shook his head. “She’s gone.”

Aestith was there for her last rites, quietly in the background to the dozens of mourners. This neither shocked or surprised him; she had lived a good life, been happy, and had many people to remember and mourn her. She had died as she had lived, and she would be missed. Aestith would miss her. He was even sad to see her go, but could not express his sorrow. He could scarcely articulate it, even to himself. She was gone and that gave him sorrow, but it wasn’t the wailing grief of the mourners. For him, it was like one more hot spring had dried up, whose loss he would miss. He knew that she would die, but he hadn’t thought it would be so  _ soon _ .

Dwarves liked to fight. Their blood ran hot at the best of times and when they got to drinking, the axes and hammers would start swinging. At the wake, one of her sons hit him.

“Hit me back,” the dwarf said.

“Why?”

The dwarf swung at Aestith’s stomach. The elf jumped back, then kicked. And then they fought, bare-knuckled, brawling. Aestith could dodge and weave, but when the dwarf hit him, it hurt.

Aestith demanded, “What have I done to anger you?”

“You were there!”

“But why are we fighting?” Aestith demanded, avoiding a blow meant for his knees.

“For the joy of it!”

The blood rush he felt in battle with orc or goblin never took him. He was somewhere between calm and some other messier emotion, something he remember from somewhere. It was the odd bubbling feeling he had when he, in a back alley around festival time in Enainsi, had caught Nier the first time, playing spider hunt when they had slipped away.  _ Play _ \--that was what it was!

Aestith walked away from it with bruises. The dwarf poured him ale and sat with him, and Qelkan’s sons spoke of their mother dearly and they asked questions of Aestith, who answered politely. Only one asked why he, a drow dared to show up. Qelkan silenced the matter before it came to a head, but Aestith saw the resentment in the other’s angry gaze, and left early.

Resentment often led to blame, and blame tempered with anger often traveled down the road of vengeance--a concept almost foreign to Aestith. He knew what the words meant, had seen dwarves enact simple revenge for perceived slights, usually in malicious compliance or something of the sort, nothing fatal or harmful. But there all the same. Lolth was against revenge, and that made sense to Aestith. What good did it do? He had killed Nier, and that other boy. It had made him happy, but did it change anything? Not really, and in the end, there were just fewer drow. If every drow enacted revenge, they’d genocide themselves. Better that they didn’t.

He stayed less than a week longer, in his small little hovel, before he wrote a letter to Qelkan and slipped it under the door, then he left.

Aestith took a long road and wound his way steadily east. He took his time, going down many a tunnel that led to nowhere.

The dwarven city, after he paid a gate fee and submitted to a ridiculous holding period and a thorough search of his things, permitted him to enter. He stayed for only a short while, but dwarves like to gossip and on his last bell, a letter from Qelkan came, saying that he would always be welcome back, and that if he liked, one of his sons lived north of the city and would welcome him.

It was the son he had fought, he found, when he knocked at the door. The man greeted him with a friendly punch to the gut. Aestith hit him back. He stayed for only a while there, too, not wanting to wear out his welcome.

The dwarf’s wife--what a weird word--inquired of him where he wished to go. He admitted that he wasn’t certain. Indeed, he was following mostly whim, but sometimes, he might see a spiderweb or an actual spider in a particular passage, so he would follow it. He didn’t know if it were happenstance or a sign, but he almost didn’t care.

He admitted this much to his acquaintance, who nodded sagely. He said, “You’re grieving a loss.”

It came as a shock to Aestith to hear it aloud, but he could not deny it. When his sisters had died, he had wandered. And now, with Bellan dead, he could not stay still. Had he wandered when his mother died? He had, come to think of it. He had trailed from room to room, wanting one of his sisters to notice him, even to yell at him or throw something, tell him to go away, but the house had been silent and the rooms devoid of life.

A road took him to a gnome city out of the Underdark, closer to the surface. He didn’t mind that so much as he thought he might initially. He disliked the idea that it felt only a scratch away, but he tolerated it. They regarded him with suspicion at best, and his reserved behavior was mistaken for standoffishness. His silence interpreted as arrogance. There was really nothing he could do to convince them of anything else, which bothered him not at all; the feelings were more or less mutual. And anyway, the city was constructed for them and he didn’t fit.

He hadn’t even felt this tall around the dwarves--perhaps because they were stocky and strong as well, but gnomes were not. They seemed like small pale children with adult brains. He was there only a short while, then went to the outskirts of the city, where they had some accommodations that catered to taller folks.

The first public house turned him away without much explanation. There was only one other, further back from the city. It looked damp, a wee bit rundown. He went into the cavern anyway. The hall curved into a common room with an assortment of crumbling stone and old wooden benches and tables, no two quite alike. A few smoky candles flickered and a fire burned in the hearth. A cluster of humans gathered near to the light, quietly cursing the caves. Those less bothered by the dark sat further from the light. They nursed earthenware mugs filled with murky liquid with little froth. Dice skittered on a table. Cards were laid down. The scent of pipe tobacco masked the lack of soap.

Aestith’s gaze carefully did not linger on the crowd. He went to the bar and sat down along an empty stretch. The bartender, a gnome, obviously on a platform on the other side, glanced at Aestith with scarcely concealed distaste. Aestith said, “I’ll have—” His eyes flicked toward each neighbor. “--mead.”

The gnome grunted and shuffled to the back wall. Aestith stared straight forward until the glass was set in front of him and the gnome grunted out something that sounded like a price. Aestith pushed across the coin and took the mug in both hands.

“Do you have a bed available?”

The gnome snorted. “Thought elves didn’t need to sleep.”

Aestith said nothing, only stared.

The gnome shrugged one shoulder. “Nothing available anyway.” He moved away.

Aestith drank slowly. He hated mead, but he was sick of ale. The half-orc leered at him. Aestith ignored him, for a while, and moved when he saw the orc-blooded rise. He walked quickly, but took care to make it look unintentional, as if he only naturally walked quickly. He sat at the empty half of a bench pulled up near the fire and slung his pack at his feet. He appreciated the fire’s warmth, and liked to watch the flames dance over the coals. A couple of the humans grumbled about “proper wood fires”. Seeing him so comfortable with the light did a bit to put the others’ minds at ease.

A horn sounded, somewhere in the city. Aestith jumped instinctively, his stomach clenched. The Underdark was a place of silence, where sounds carried and bounced back at you. Noise invited all kinds of predatory terrors. Children, who at certain ages did not know how to control their voices, were not often let outside of the house; it was  _ childlike _ to invite such noise--and nothing made him realize more firmly that he was so very far from home. You were only loud if you had the power to dare. Enainsi’s water clock dared, and little else.

As the blast died away, some of the drinkers grumbled and complained. The gnome bartender gritted his teeth in irritation. 

“... And of course the bastard chose today.”

“They’ll be combing the city looking for him.”

“Damn it.”

“What’s going on?” someone asked. Aestith tried not to make it look like he were eavesdropping.

Someone else answered, “Escaped prisoner. They have the city on lockdown, so the streets need to be cleared while they search. Must be important, but no one is to travel, so we’re all stuck here.”

This explanation was met with more groaning. The gnome and the orc entered heated debate. Aestith half-expected it to come to a rather amusing, but predictable, end.

The half-orc sat down in his seat with a harrumph. Aestith, seeing he would be deprived of the dim satisfaction that might come of the gnome being squashed, looked back at the dancing flames. The gnome buzzed from person to person like a fly sampling excrement. There was a general exchange of money. A few people decided to take their chances with the guards and left. The gnome went back to the half-orc, perhaps hoping he had had some time to mull over whatever they had argued about. The orc fumed and spat and made a move as if to kick the little gnome.

The gnome struck with his walking stick, right below the knee, then stepped aside and struck behind the other knee. The orc staggered and the gnome danced around him again.  _ Smack! _

The gnome waited, but the humiliation of being so bruised by something so small seemed to have cowed the other. Smoldering, he sank back into his chair and coughed up some glint of metal from his purse. The gnome counted, nodded, and hobbled on to the next one. Aestith wondered how much of the hobbling was an act.

His brow wrinkled in thought. An act, to appear more harmless, to appear like something other than himself. And catch people off-guard.

The gnome swept through the room, then stopped at Aestith. “Drow, you can stay in the common room until they catch ‘im, or you can risk a stay in the tanty by goin’ outside, what’ll it be?”

Aestith blinked slowly. He had heard the others asked similar questions. “Ah, how much for the common room?”

He smiled. “Five silver.”

Aestith had no doubt that it would have been much cheaper if he had insisted on making a bed for himself here before the siren. “You sure you don’t have a room for a woman?”

Someone in a darker corner seemed to squirm at the idea, and finally burst. The other drow pushed from the table and walked to Aestith. “Don’t. Pay him two pennies and you can stay in my room. If you want it, you can even have the bed.” He kept his head respectfully down.

Aestith only stared, then his eyes turned toward the gnome. The gnome’s face screwed into a scowl. “Two pennies?” the gnome began.

The drow glared, his pale eyes taking on a reddish tint. “That was what you charged the humans.” He inclined his head.

The gnome made a face, then crossed his arms. “But two drow are a liability. I need my insurance, you see. Recompense for the possible damage. Five silver now, and I’ll give five back if the room isn’t damaged.”

The stranger’s countenance flickered into a long-suffering look. “Sister—”

Aestith’s guts twisted. He wanted to scream, to gut the money-hungry little gnome for his arrogance and his bias, but what good would that do him? A violent action only spurred a violent reaction, and in this circumstance, would help no one, least of all himself. “I’ll give you two pennies. And a round of ale for the house.”

Those previously ignoring the three perked up at the thought of free ale. The gnome opened his mouth to argue, but his gaze flicked to those now listening. He relaxed. “That’ll do.” He took the pennies and moved on to the next overflow guest.

The other drow’s glaucous eyes flicked upwards once, then back down. He hunched his shoulders as if he were actively trying to make himself as small as possible. Aestith scoffed. “Five silvers, my ass.”

The other snorted as if he were stifling a laugh. “It’s ridiculous,” he agreed. Then, more quietly, “But that’s how it is here. Or anywhere away from home.”

“Where’s home?” Aestith asked.

The other was silent a long moment, then shook his head. Aestith nodded; he understood. He probably would not have answered either.

The gnome was pouring drinks. Aestith stepped away from the other and went to the bar to pay for them, glaring when the gnome tried to charge more that time. The gnome backed down, and anyway, it improved the general mood in the pub. Everyone was stuck inside, but at least they had drink.

Aestith sat near the fire and listened to one of the humans while he told stories. Tales of the surface, like Aestith had never heard. They were fascinating, the way a flood was fascinating. The inane details, he hinged upon, unable to quite picture it in his mind.

Finally burning with curiosity, he asked, “What’s rain?”

The humans stopped. Two of them turned and ignored the question. One made a look of disgust. The fourth answered, “It’s water. It falls from the—” He stopped. Aestith tilted his head. “It falls from above, sometimes just a sprinkling, or a downpour.”

Aestith’s brow wrinkled. He didn’t know the last word. “A what?”

“A--Like a torrent.”

Aestith tried to imagine this. “Like a waterfall?”

“Sort of. Except it goes on for miles in every direction.”

Aestith’s brow wrinkled. “What from?”

“Well from…” His face screwed into a frown. “It’s like, far above us. Like the roof of a cave. And water leaks everywhere from it.”

Aestith paused to consider this. “There’s a river or a lake above you? And this is normal?” He couldn’t believe someone would be daft enough to live under such a thing.

The man shook his head, but snorted a laugh. “No, it--Well, sort of. The firmament is… Well, it’s just really high up. It’s like water that floats…”

“Water that floats? On what?”

“On air.” By the man’s expression, he clearly realized how insane this sounded.

Aestith only felt more confused for having asked. “I see.”

The man smiled. His skin was a dark brown shade. Not the puffy, undercooked pink of his compatriots; still pale compared to Aestith, but not as sickly. The human said, “Sorry. I don’t think I’m describing it very well.”

“Oh…”

The humans slowly bled from the room, and the rest of those who actually slept. Aestith just wanted to lie down for a while. The room was empty when he came in. He put his things down and stared at the bed for a long moment. It was large enough for two elves. He shook his head and peeled off the least comfortable bits of his clothing, then crawled to the far side of the bed, by the wall. The coolness bade him to slide under the blanket and burrow into the dried lichen mattress. He was halfway through his Trance when the door opened. Slowly, he turned, his eye settling on the other.

The male undressed partway, and slid to the floor, legs folded with his back against the wall.

Aestith wondered if he could rise, take the other and put him into the bed. He wondered what it would be like if, just once, he might have someone else touch him, instead of being the one doing the touching. Then he sighed and turned back around.

He was silent a long while, then moved back around. His breath fogged. Few places in the Underdark were that cold. They were well away from it.

“Is it always this cold here?” Aestith asked.

The male blinked and lifted his head. “In winter.”

“Winter?” Aestith echoed.

“It’s a surface thing. For a time, the world above is cold, and the earth this close to the surface is cold too.”

Aestith shivered. How far were they? “How long does it last?”

“Months. This one is almost over, but it comes again every year, and then it gets warm again.”

_ Come keep me warm, _ Aestith wanted to say. But he didn’t.

#

The problem with traveling alone was being alone. It wasn’t that it was any slower or more dangerous, for he could conceal himself better alone. Simply being alone, however, was boring.

All the novels he had read, in various languages, featured lonely warriors or suchlike, embarking on epic journeys. They were usually alone or assembled a ragtag group of unlikely heroes, yet still seemed “alone” somehow. And the best bits of the books were usually when they were alone. That was when they struggled, or had to best the odds by themselves or riddle with dragons or suchlike. It was when they were alone that you saw who they really were.

Aestith decided that, if he were to ever write his memoirs, he’d have to leave out all the bits with him traveling, lest he bore his reader to tears. What might he say?  _ I walked, and walked some more, stopped and rested for a bit and had a snack, then walked some more? Just after lunch, I stubbed my toe and trod on a beetle?  _ All dreadfully dull.

He walked slowly and relatively aimlessly, only following wherever he thought Lolth might have directed him. If he received no sign from her, he might stop and pray for a time, or made his own decision--which honestly, he thought the goddess was trying to beat into his brain anyway. That sounded more like her, though in truth, he didn’t know a whole lot about his goddess, beyond his blind devotion and her penchant for chaos and desire for obedience. In return, she promised power. What more did he really need?

He must have walked for-- _ tenday _ , he must remember that it was a  _ tenday _ , because the Common tongue wasn’t very inventive _. _ He had spent years with the dwarves, but he could not quite shake off the things he had learned as true as a child. It was more akin, to Aestith, as learning another language rather than colloquial terms. Common, after all, wasn’t what his thoughts were in, as it were.

The increasing cold drove him back downwards, into the upper reaches of the Underdark, where things made a bit more sense to him. He stayed in a town of dwarves for the night, and a turn or so later, made camp.

He had found the cavern mostly because he had hit a dead end walking and was too stubborn, and maybe reckless, to backtrack; he had chosen to climb up to the smaller tunnel and crawl, then slide, then tumble through. He had nearly gotten stuck twice, but he had little propensity to panic. Sometimes, it was concerning; fear kept a drow alive, but Aestith’s emotions were always so distant. In that moment, it worked to advantage and he was able to calmly remove himself from the situation, breathe carefully out, and wriggle away.

He camped there mostly because he was tired of walking. The mushroom forest had been dark, uninteresting.

Once he stopped making such racket and laid down to relax, the forest slowly came out of hiding. The mushrooms glowed gently, some as small as a finger and others as big as the Rix family home. Lichen opened with an almost audible murmur. Moss crept over the floor. Thick ironvines snaked down the cave walls. Water cascaded down it, taking bits of floating flora, glowing dim.

It was beautiful, and quiet. He found, over the course of the next few candlemarks, that he could make minimal sounds, but any kind of banging or a voice above a whisper would cause the sensitive plants to close, and the light would go out. They would do this first nearest to the noise, and it would ripple backward, lighting again the same way.

He was able to carefully harvest some of the smaller specimens, dry them, and put them in a bag. He found a small patch of mushrooms of a similar species to the ones his family used. Those, he took all of. They might be wild and uncultivated, not nearly as potent, but he knew what he could do with them to improve that--and to manufacture the drug if he so chose.

He was able to hide from any creature that trespassed through the area by climbing into a crevasse and hunkering down low; fighting would be pointless and could damage the area. Easier to watch it pass. Rarely, anything lingered. It was peaceful here, quiet and restful. He spent his time in quiet contemplation. Long candlemarks passed in meditation as he focused on finding some kind of divine guidance. Or, more likely, his own revelations.

Meditating was a bit different than Trance--that came almost naturally. Meditation was more difficult for him; his thoughts were often flighty and difficult to pin down, like the bats he trapped for a meat source. Letting his mind go blank was almost impossible, but he could intently focus on something. Usually it was Lolth; he couldn’t contemplate much else for very long, unless it was his own naval, but thinking about his personal problems often only led him back to how much he missed Enainsi and his sisters, and that was an exercise in futility. He couldn’t do anything about the homesickness, except to go home. With such an obvious, and dangerous, solution, there was no use contemplating it further.

Lolth, though--the Spider Queen was an enigma. He could meditate on her for a turn and be no closer to comprehension, which did nothing to deter him. He never felt anything as strongly as his loyalty to her, nor the deep passion he held for her. He had planned his own death with more apathy. Devotion was at the core of his being.

He was safe here. He didn’t feel alien, nor did he feel he had to hide. It was tranquil. He felt rested, and it was nice for a long while. Then he became restless. It wasn’t that there wasn’t enough for him to do--foraging, hunting, and trapping gave him plenty. It took him longer than he liked to recognize it; he may not feel alienated or that he should hide, but he felt lonely. Even that wasn’t quite enough for him to leave; loneliness was often preferable to alienation. But you cold be alone without being lonely, and the opposite was true as well. What did he want?

He tried to concentrate on that question, but he only kept coming back to Lolth. Then, what was he even doing here? He couldn’t do anything here, couldn’t serve her, couldn’t please her. She demanded chaos. This was peace. He had to leave, but go where?

He had just been wandering for so long, surely he had to find a direction, a destination at the least?

His brow creased in frustrated concentration and his hand slipped. The knife sliced open his thumb and he jerked back. A fat drop of blood glistened on his thumb. He set the knife down with the mushrooms and pressed a cloth to the cut.

Maybe it didn’t matter, or maybe he’d simply know when he got there.

***

The Rix boy was gone. Ondalia had not been able to discover where to, even after a decade of casual digging. The body had not been recovered, which wasn’t too unusual, but a little suspect; bodies were useful and the Underdark had so few resources that unless it was mangled beyond usefulness, it should have been brought back.

Regardless, she knew without doubt that he was alive somehow. She had never bothered to contact him, though right now having him run this errand would be more useful than having to rely on her own vassals. The boy had almost worshiped her from the moment he clapped his eyes upon her; she had recognized the look, for she looked to Lolth the same way.

If he was away from Enainsi, though, he was beyond the point of usefulness to her.

The slave knelt at her side. She inspected the slave’s work on her perfectly manicured nails. The gold glinted in the light. Discovering early on in life that her fellows barely tolerated bright light, she had sought to accustom herself to it, not out of any personal interest or a desire to be different, but rather to use it against them.

She listened to a human slave read out a list of recent rumors, followed by another list of names of the recently murdered. After that, there was a list of births, then a list of various goings-on. The first slave braided her hair during this, applied powders and creams to Ondalia’s satisfaction, then she relaxed in the chair while the other slave finished the last list. The reading slave had a clear, high voice and spoke carefully. She had been bred here and long used to drow, perfectly tame. Humans did not thrive in the Underdark; they were nearly blind. Ondalia found that to be useful, for it meant it was harder for them to run, though they knew and had seen the punishments for trying that. They were cleverer than goblins, too, and for that they had to be watched.

She studied the fresco on the ceiling--an underground mushroom forest. “Dismissed,” she told the slaves with a sigh. Both left and she was afforded nearly five minutes of blessed silence before her vassal returned.

The grey-haired male stalked across the room and knelt in front of her. She frowned. “You’re early.”

A pause. “I believe my presence was noted, my lady.”

If she was able to control it, she would have done her best to keep her eyes their usual shade.  _ The Rix boy wouldn’t have even been noticed. But he was from a merchant family, and they could come and go in the merchant ward. _ “Why is that?”

He flinched. “We agreed that I would not try to sneak in and instead attempt to pass as the hired help,” he reminded her. “That was done without great difficulty, and I was vague enough with the few questions asked. But I still suspect that the Innis merchant knew.”

She sighed. Most of her fellows were inward-focused, only concentrating on the struggles within the church or politics. She would have been less stressed if she did likewise. “Did you find anything useful?”

A shrug. “Yes and no. Innis has been maneuvering for years to dominate the drug trade. Rix hold a monopoly of sorts, but I believe it’s tenacious; whatever favor they curried with the Spider Queen is slipping. Innis has produced a female child showing promise for the clergy.”

“How old is she?”

“Almost twenty.”

She relaxed by degrees. The girl wouldn’t be going for training for a while yet. It wasn’t only the ruling class that produced clerics. “I had heard a rumor, but it is good to have it confirmed.” Even at the cost of him having been suspected. “Anything else?”

“It should only upset the merchant class. They’ve had a string of ill luck with their caravans.”

Likely more due to Rix interference. It was good that none of  _ that _ family had ever produced a cleric. She almost shuddered; they produced so many daughters, many of them twins, most of them talented in one way or another. The money they had, the connections. No, she didn’t want them rising when they could so easily tip the scale. It would have been nice if the Rix boy had been here, as her own personal eyes and ears to that family.

***

The shadows on the cave wall at first alarmed him--they looked huge and monstrously real, then he realized he was being childish. But shadows meant light. To him, light had always meant magic or a fire, glowing lichen, glowing mushrooms, maybe glow worms in jars. He touched the hilt of his rapier, then his hand fell away. He followed the shadow, then stopped, staring at the animal casting the shadow.

It was like a rat, but smaller, skinny, with a fluffier tail and a differently shaped head. It held something in its forepaws and chewed. It ignored him at first, but when he didn’t move, it stopped. The seed husk fell from its paws. It tilted its head, as if measuring him as a potential threat. Its tail twitched. It chittered, a high-pitched, offensive sound that echoed distantly, and only, oddly, from one direction. He glanced behind him curiously at the direction of the echo, then looked back at the creature in time for it to dash from its perch and zip away. He looked after the direction it had gone, then balked, staring, eyes wide.

It was so bright if he had not waited in the half-light, watching the animal, it may have blinded him. He took a tentative step forward, squinting. He hovered back, away from the mouth of the cave. Aestith expected someone to drag him backwards into the dark, into what he had known and believed. Or, worse, for something to drag him out of the cave into the blinding light. He stared upwards and wondered if any of it even mattered.


	11. Silence

The sky was too big.

He had never even fathomed something so big could possibly exist. He knew, academically, that the earth was big, but it had never felt like one solid entity--not really. You can only see portions of it at a time, so it never felt unknowably large. The sky, however, was too high up, too large. It swallowed the entire world, and the landscape just went on and on forever. No walls to cut it off, no darkness to cover you. No safety in stone. Even the air was wrong. He no longer breathed the breath of the earth. It was the cold sharpness of the sky or the heat of the sun. He could bear the subtle differences between the upper cave system and the Underdark, away from the gentle radiations that felt comforting to him. Here, every pull of his lungs felt like inhaling poison if he dwelled on it.

The dwarf perfectly understood Aestith’s complaints, offering a sympathetic ear.

Aestith was drunk and rambling. He had been doing that more and more lately, though so long as he was learning, he didn’t think Lolth particularly cared.

“And--and it’s so  _ bright _ ,” Aestith continued, gesturing vaguely at the hearth. “How does anyone  _ stand _ the bloody thing. The… what’s it called? The sun!”

The human at the table rolled his eyes, but grinned at Aestith. “Not everyone can see in the dark.” He had good teeth.

The dwarf snorted. “Don’t see why you haven’t learned, man. What time in the afternoon do you wake up?”

The other’s grin widened. “Hopefully, after the girl leaves.”

Aestith rolled his eyes and took another swig of the ale. The surface, he had to concede, had better brews. And food. Everything else, however, was wrong. “Well, it’s not like she’d hang around again for another 47 seconds of sub-par thrusting.”

“St. Cuthbert's balls, Aestith! That was  _ one time _ !”

Aestith smirked. “And Talara  _ still _ says you’re the worst she’s ever had.”

He shook his head. “I was so drunk.”

The dwarf lifted his mug. “Same as ever.”

The man leaned forward with a smirk. “Give me 47 seconds, Aestith.” He winked.

Aestith stared at him flatly, skin crawling in disgust. These pale-faced humans, their round ears, and alien eyes. They looked underdone, like raw bread. The darker humans were better, but they were still monstrously tall. Aestith snorted. “You can’t even get hard in 47 seconds.”

The dwarf roared with laughter. The human’s face flushed. Aestith couldn’t remember either of their names, truth be told, but he had been drinking with them for weeks while they wintered--another horrible thing about the surface--and at this point, it was too awkward to ask.

“Damn, you’re vicious tonight,” the human whistled. “Think you need to get laid, girl.”

His mouth twitched. It was rude to call a drow woman  _ girl _ . It was infantilizing and disrespectful. He knew by now, however, what the human meant. “If you’re offering, I’ll have to decline. I have standards.”

The human rolled his eyes. “Come on. You want someone who can lift you, throw you against the wall and—”

His lips curled. Why were so my surfacers so disrespectful to women? Assuming he’d like like that!

The human waved his hand to the barmaid, who took his mug to refill it from a pitcher in her other hand. The dwarf said, “Drop it, Chardrick. You proposition Aestith again and I stick a knife in your hand.”

Chardrick showed his empty palms. “Fine, fine.” The barmaid dropped off his ale. He swiped it and rose. “I’ll be romancing Dalany, if anyone needs me.”

Aestith snorted. The dwarf saluted him with his cup.  _ What am I meant to be doing? _ A spider wove a web in the corner, and he shifted uncomfortably. Probably not holding up in a tavern. But what was he supposed to do? It was the middle of winter. He shouldn’t have come up here, but his natural propensity for exploring new things had pushed him further and further from the cave. At first, it had only been occasional forays, mostly at night. He had wanted to see whatever there was to see, to learn whatever there was to know. Now, he didn’t even know where the cave was.

He had lived so much of his life by drow doctrine for males-- _ be useful _ \--that he was losing his mind having little use in the society. Oh, the innkeeper liked him well enough; Aestith could bake as well as anyone. The old slave had been right about the wood for fires, though it had taken some getting used to over the coal and the type of lichen he was used to, but the lichen flour and the wheat flour held similar properties. So his skills with bread and pies usually saw him through. Sometimes mercenaries would stop by the inn, and he would spar or fight with them to keep up his skills or the village had some other issue he could be of use for. He lived so much of his life by the drow doctrine for males-- _ be useful _ \--that he couldn’t bear to be idle. And, while he was generally met with deep suspicion or outright hatred, greed got in the way of prejudice. Aestith imagined he was one blighted crop or stillbirth away from being run out of town by an angry mob though.

Surely Lolth could not have meant for him to continue to be  _ here _ . They said that going to the surface was disgraceful, but then “they” said a lot of things, many of which Aestith had learned to disregard or ignore. Aestith viewed knowledge as being akin to power, and ignorance was deadly. This place might be a decent enough place for him to grow, to learn a bit more about the surface in easy-to-swallow pieces, but it just seemed too small for whatever grand design he played in her web.

If he was only a small strand of her web, he couldn’t understand why she would personally intervene. Not that it was for him to know the goddess, but he couldn’t seem to get the pieces to fit together any other way. And yet--if he were so important to her, why had she been so silent?

He wanted so badly to go back home, where everything made  _ sense _ . Where everything was easy and he just had to do what was expected or whatever his sisters asked of him.

Then he stopped.

The goddess was silent  _ because _ he had had to learn to make decisions on his own. He  _ had _ to learn to do that. What other choice was there? Once he went back, he already knew it wouldn’t be the same. He would never fit perfectly back into his old life. That just wasn’t possible. Not to say his old life held much more than a nostalgic comfort in the familiar. Of course he wanted more--everyone did. It was just any old ambitions he had were out of his reach. It wouldn’t be a life of serving his sisters. That yoke was gone and he wouldn’t put it back without a fight. Yet doing what other people wanted him to do was so much easier.

But if he waited for someone else to tell him what to do, he’d never learn to make decisions on his own. He’d be paralyzed until receiving the order--and he had been. 

He was surviving here when he needed to thrive. He barely made any decisions of his own. Every single action he made was just doing what someone else told him to. He was an obedient pack animal, and while that was useful in its way to Lolth, it had its limitations; he needed to get the bit in his teeth.

He had to make his own decisions.

The thought filled him with dread. He wanted to run back to the hollow and beg for guidance, which he knew intuitively would not be given; the mere request would spark punishment, yet even that was something. It would be easier to continue his miserable existence, but how could he? How could he do anything but please her? 

Outside the windows, the snow fell as if driven there by a windigo, but there wasn’t one. Easier if there were; something could be done to stop it. The nights were long in winter--which he would approve of if not for the abominable cold and wet. The traders were talking about some adventure in the desert about a mirage of a golden palace and a desert madness born of lack of water--the surface was a horrible place--when the iron bell over the door clanged for more guests.

It wasn’t eavesdropping if you didn’t have to strain to listen to the conversation; Aestith learned that there were four of them, each with horses needing stabling. They had precious little room available to travelers so late in the season, but the travelers paid a small fee and would sleep on the floor of the common room.

And so it was that, when Aestith rose early to make the morning’s bread, he almost stepped on one of them. He muttered under his breath and tiptoed around the sleepers and went into the kitchen. He stoked the fires and started on the dough. A while later, the publican’s wife’s son--when you marry a whore, you acquire some things--wandered sleepily through the kitchen. He bundled up and trudged outside to attend the stables.

When the door opened only a short time later, Aestith commented, “Forget something?”

A floorboard creaked. The boy wasn’t heavy enough to incite such a sound from the planks. Aestith lifted his head, more in curiosity than alarm. Who else would be awake at this time? The man grinned. Aestith didn’t know him, so he must have been one of the travelers from the night before. They had all hunched down in a corner by themselves and whispered all evening over bowls of stew. “My sanity, perhaps,” he said. His pink lips looked like pudgy worms. “Never thought I’d see a drow doing menial chores.”

Aestith's lips curled a little and he opened his mouth to give a scathing remark, then considered. He said instead, “Depending on one’s standing, it’s difficult to trust a meal or a drink, so cooking it oneself ensures it’s trustworthy, usually.” He shrugged. “It’s also rather relaxing.” He dropped the wad of dough into a greased bowl, which he covered with a cloth and placed near the oven for it to rise.

He chuckled. “I know someone who would pay to see you do that.”

Aestith snorted. “Indeed. Well. Do tell them. I’m sure they’ll believe you.”

The man groaned. “But they  _ won’t _ !”

He smirked to himself. “Seems likely.”

The man left with no further comment. Aestith mentally walked back the conversation, considering every nuance, the part where it could have been a conflict, but was resolved amicably. He wondered if similar principles might be employed in other circumstances. 

During the day, Aestith did his best to remain inside; the sky was oppressively uncomfortable and the sun simply painful, to compound both with the snow! Even surface-dwellers suffered snow blindness; it seemed safest to leave that sort of thing to someone else.

Unfortunately, he had to go to the wellhouse for water. Aestith tried to get out of going by offering to do some other chore instead, but to no avail. He took the bucket and slipped into warmer garments, then braved the cold.

He kept the hood pulled up, both to ward off the chill against his ears and face, and to shadow his eyes. The light  _ hurt _ . One positive to winter was in how short the days were, which inspired the humans to stay abed longer.

Aestith theorized that not only did drow live longer than humans as a matter of years, they lived longer than them in marks in the bell--or, on the surface, hours in the day. Why did humans and dwarves and so forth need to sleep so much? Aestith  _ liked _ to sleep, but it was hard to understand why it might be so necessary. In truth, he wasn’t certain he would  _ ever _ understand surface dwellers, and humans in particular. He didn’t understand the differences in culture and many aspects were  _ so weird _ .

Due to the cold in the mountains, the village had, years ago, installed a building around the well. He shouldered the door open and shook off the snow on his boots. At least he could see now. He set the bucket down and pushed back the cover on the stone well. The grinding of the wood on the stone sent a small brown spider scurrying. Aestith caught it with one hand and moved it gently out of the well. He set it on the floor and it scrambled away. He lowered the bucket down the well, one crank at a time.

At the bottom, it clinked. Swearing, he rose the bucket again. Cursing himself for not checking it first, he peered over the edge at the was a layer of ice overtop of the water. He exhaled noisily, clouding the air with his breath.

He drummed his fingers on the side of the well and looked at the door. He stepped away from the well and tugged the door closed. It wasn’t really meant to be closed from the inside and it creaked open a sliver as he stepped away. It wasn’t like magic was illegal here; he had known plenty of magic-users. It was that, well, he stood out enough as-is. In Enainsi, a drow simply  _ didn’t _ call attention to themselves without certain calculations and precautions, particularly not a male drow.

He didn’t think, even with everything about how his body had changed, that he could ever call himself a woman. His body was his, no question. He felt no odd dysmorphia or discomfort in regards to that; he just still thought of himself as “male”. Perhaps this was upbringing, or his nature.

All these things he thought idly as he made a gesture in the air and whispered a prayer--these, for some reason, always seemed more effective and easier for him to do than only what he had been taught of wizardry. He pointed downwards and the flame spilled over the ice. The water quenched it, but the ice melted. He dropped the bucket back down and laboriously filled his own. He held the buckets on the stout stick slung over his shoulders. He kicked the door open, then shut it with his hip and the latch with an elbow. He tromped to the back of the inn and got the water to boiling. One bucket for the washing, one for the stew.

In the common room, people were moving around, some shouting. Aestith instinctively ignored this at the first, then grew curious. He poked his head out the door.

“Bring them in! Step back! Give them some air! Any of you travelers know healing of any sort?” The innkeeper knocked a tin bowl off a trestle table. Walnuts husks spilled over the floor. Two people laid someone down on the table.

The travelers shook their heads. One piped, “I know a bit about herbs.”

“Right,” he sighed. “Rob, go run and get the barber, eh? Get!”

His son careened out the door without his coat. Aestith frowned, then darted back into the kitchen. In the common room, people spoke hurriedly, heavy boots clunked over the floor, doors opened and shut.

Aestith boiled water in a kettle and brought out towels and the water before anyone asked.

“It’s bad,” the barber said with a shake of his head. He had been in a battle or two, as a field surgeon. “All I know to do is to cut it off.”

“No, that can’t be,” a new traveler said.

The publican’s wife shoved a man aside and looked at the one on the table. “Help me get his pants off--let’s look at the leg.”

The man screamed when they touched him. Someone held him down and the leather cowl slipped from his hair. Aestith stilled. The man’s head turned. A drow. It puzzled Aestith that the humans did not simply leave him to die if he had gotten hurt, not because Aestith thought the other should die if he got hurt, but because surface people held so much resentment to drow raiding parties and suchlike. People tended to hate what they didn’t understand; they didn’t understand Lolth’s desire for struggle, and they refused to protect themselves so they died as a result of it.

Aestith looked down, then scurried back into the kitchen, where he fell to his knees in relative privacy. He closed his eyes, whispering prayers fervently, too hurriedly, too rushed, but heartfelt. People talked outside. The front door opened, more talking, a little screaming.

Aestith swiped at his eyes and rushed back out.

The herbs-woman had elbowed her way to the table to look at the leg. Aestith squeezed forward. His stomach pressed against the trestle table. The leg was so badly burned the boot needed to be cut off to see the extent of the flame’s kiss. Removing the leather had peeled back flesh with it.

His companion said, “A dragon. A small one. But…”

“Idiot,” someone swore.

“No, not the  _ dragon _ . It wasn’t a dragon what did this. It was—”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

The herbs-woman shook her head. The barber nodded. “I’ll need volunteers to hold him down. Get him some liquor. We’ll need hot water and some rags.” She added, “Someone heat a copper-bottomed pan. To staunch the blood flow.”

Aestith squeezed his way toward the leg, then recoiled at the sight of it. It was burned, twisted, melted like a charred bit of bacon.

A mustachioed human slammed a meaty fist into the table so hard it bounced and the drow hissed like a cat in pain. “Can’t we do nothing for him? Wrap it in a poultice til we get ‘im to a proper healer?”

“And wait for the leg to die? So it can just rot off on its own and spread to the rest of him?”

“We can cut it off if it comes to that!”

Aestith ignored the shouting, the arguments. The barber got his saw. Aestith closed his eyes and beseeched his dark goddess. His lips moved like a child learning to read, “For the faith I bear you. For the people you command. May I serve you always.”

It was different than the magic he had performed before. Stronger, heavier. It lifted from him as if he were throwing lead balls. It rolled off of him like sap. It left behind pieces of itself like water run over rocks. It spiraled down his fingers where it danced over the stranger’s damaged cutis. It sunk into the burned flesh, rushing deep inside it. It restored the blood, the veins and arteries and with it a new sensation of agony. The man gasped as if he might scream if he could only manage to move past the pain of his dead leg. Time turned back on the cooked muscle. The blood flowed through it. The muscle expanded. The skin cracked and nearly split, then seemed to catch up to the internal healing. It grew and the wrinkles smoothed out. The flesh curved over muscle. The curled toes straightened. Melted toenails grew firm. Even the hair prickled and grew over the leg.

The drow on the table sighed in relief and his shoulders drooped. He rolled his head and looked at Aestith. Aestith met his gaze, then tried to hurry away, but it was impossible; too many people had been watching.

Aestith was not allowed to retreat back to his quiet sanctity. He was ushered into a seat and everyone wanted to talk to him, to thank him, to buy him a drink or a meal or to talk, making jokes about how Aestith had been holding out on them or suchlike. Cherdrick clapped him on the back and flirted amorously and outrageously. Why did he do that? Why couldn’t Cherdrick just act like every other human and avoid Aestith?

Aestith eventually got the entire story from the sellswords; they were journeying home after signing up for some company or another. The dragon, they admitted, had not attacked them. The dragon had merely made a lot of noise and then they investigated. The creature, they claimed, had been so horribly mangled that putting it out of its misery was an act of pity more than of valor, which was when the necromancer had found them. The necromancer in question was dead, but at cost. It had been doing something with the dragon’s blood, but Aestith didn’t stick around long enough to hear what, and didn’t care.

It was well past supper when Aestith was finally able to slip away, then managed to further avoid the common room by busying himself where he had left off in the kitchen. The publican’s wife had taken care of the stew and had made biscuits to go with it. Aestith would have added dumplings to the stew. Still, he wanted to make the dough for tomorrow’s bread, and there were other things to take care of too.

He tossed the mother dough into the bowl and reached for the sack of flour. The door opened. He assumed, without looking, that it was the publican or his family, so he continued.

“I never had the opportunity to properly thank you. I passed out,” someone explained, in perfect Undercommon.

Aestith dropped the cup in the flour bag and looked up as if he had been caught under suspicious activity. The other stared respectfully downward. Aestith opened his mouth to say something, then stopped. He hated being caught off-guard. “Couldn’t you knock?” he said.

He flinched. “I did. It’s loud out there--maybe you didn’t hear it?”

Aestith looked back at the table. He had probably just dismissed it as more common room noise. “Of course.”

“I--At any…There is no way I can reward you proper thanks. I would have lost the leg otherwise,” he explained. Aestith glanced at him. He bowed low. “Thank you, my lady.”

Aestith shook his head to object to the title, then stopped. The drow straightened, but kept his head down. He was taller than Aestith, by perhaps an inch, maybe less. “What’s your name?”

“Valanxal, my lady. In your debt.” And he knew what that meant, to drow, by his expression--somewhere between resignation and pain.

Aestith shook his head. He didn’t  _ want _ someone in his debt. He—

A spider wove a web in the corner and dropped down on one long strand. He stilled and leaned against the counter. “Sellsword?” Aestith's eyes narrowed. “You like it on the surface?”

The other picked over his words as if he were running through a field trying not to tread on flowers. “As much as anyone can enjoy being a half-blind outsider.”

“So you do?”

He stared at the cracked clay brick floor. “What may I do to serve you?”

“Not me. Never  _ me _ .” Aestith raised his head. “My power is Lolth’s and it is through her divinity you are healed. Why don’t you contemplate what that means, and remember who you are and what you are meant to be.”

Valanxal flinched. “It is easy for you, isn’t it?” Then his eyes widened as he seemed to realize what he had said, and who to. “I apologize; I do not mean—”

“And you have lost all due respect, haven’t you? Do you even remember who you are and where you come from? Do not lie to me and tell me you were born here and do not know. I can see in your eyes that you know better.” Aestith's teeth gritted.

He lifted his head, temper rising against better judgment. “I do not mean to cause offense, my lady, but you are here too.”

“Yet I haven’t forsaken my goddess nor forgotten my home.”

He backed up a pace, as if Aestith could undo the healing he had done. Valanxal’s eyes closed in quiet submission. “You are right, my lady.” They opened. “Only tell me what to do.”

“Can you go back home?”

He shook his head, then looked down again.

Aestith looked at the web, but the spider was gone. “I ask only that you pay the goddess proper respect, Valanxal.”

He nodded. “I apologize again, my lady. I am out of place. I had intended only to thank you and instead I have caused offense.”

Aestith threaded his lower lip through his teeth. “I suppose I can… concoct a way for you to make it up to me.” He cocked an eyebrow.

Valanxal caught the tone in his voice. His lips twitched in a dim smile.

#

Valanxal’s wrists were tied with two belts to the bedposts, to keep him from being curious. Aestith had stripped him down first, tied him before he had undergone any degree of undressing himself. As a spider traps her prey, Aestith pinned his partners.

Aestith slid from the bed and pulled on the smock and underthings, and only then moved the dress from Valanxal’s face that had acted as a blindfold.

The other rolled his head to look at Aestith. “Why do you want no one to see or touch you, Aestith? You’re beautiful.”

Aestith turned his back to him and slid into the dress, aware of his face heating. “It’s not your place to question me.”

“Forgive me.” A pause while Aestith laced the bodice. “Untie me?”

Aestith ran his fingers through his thick hair, trying to put it in some semblance of order. “Of course.” He untied one hand, then leaned across the bed to untie the other. Aestith half-expected Valanxal to grope him, but he didn’t. Aestith pushed back and stepped from the bed. His room was small, barely a closet with only one high window Aestith had covered long ago. Neither drow had any trouble seeing one another in the dark.

Valanxal sat up, eyes searching Aestith, as if he could find what didn’t fit. Then he looked down and picked up his clothing, his duty done. “I will… think on what you’ve said.”

Aestith leaned against the wall. He nodded. “Mm.”

Valanxal tilted his head, opened his mouth as if he might say something, then only dressed in silence. Neither spoke of the matter, as if it were a private business dealing and nothing more.

 


	12. Endarken

The next evening, Aestith found, neatly folded on his bed, a rose-colored necklace. It was the color of Jaalie’s hair in candlelight. Grief and loss flickering over his face, replaced by anger. He stomped back into the common room to Cherdrick. Humans had such odd names.

Aestith slammed the necklace down on the table. “Don’t think to woo me with your petty gifts, human!”

Cherdrick’s brows bent in surprise. He lifted the necklace upwards, to the light. He tilted his head and frowned. “Never seen it before.” He winked. “But, fair lady, I’d woo you with song. Not gifts.” He handed the bauble back to him. “Not to say I do not think the color would bring out any rosiness hidden in your ebony cheeks.”

Aestith, now embarrassed, took the jewelry and held it in his fingertips. Did Cherdrick even know what ebony was? Nobles had skin like that, and the Rix family were far from nobility, and it was plain in his hematite pallor. “But if not you, then who?” he murmured as he scanned the common room. He looked back at Cherdrick. “My apologies. I should know better by now.”

“I should accept a drink and your company in apology.”

“Alas, I tire,” Aestith parried.

Cherdrick smiled charmingly. “Ah, but perhaps one might require particular companies? With that I can of course assist--Ack!” He rubbed the back of his head where Aestith had smacked him, then glanced backwards with a grin at the curve of Aestith's bottom under the dress as he stomped away. Cherdrick’s companions snickered.

Aestith shut himself in his room and twisted the lock. A hand on his shoulder made him jump. His elbow caught the intruder in the jaw. Aestith kicked. The intruder fell backwards, then braced himself against the wall. In a fury, Aestith moved his arm to strike him again. Valanxal moved his hand automatically to catch it, and seemed surprised when Aestith was not strong enough to rail against him.

Valanxal stared at the arm, at Aestith's lithe figure, his demure stature. His eyes widened in a small “O” of realization.

Aestith wrenched his arm back. “Fuck you. And what the fuck were you thinking coming here?”

“To again offer my services.”

Aestith stared at him in cold silence, then shoved the rose necklace toward him. “I like green,” he snapped, his teeth gritted. It was almost as if he only wanted something to say while he summoned courage and wit to describe his true anger. “It is presumptuous of you to give me a gift, as I previously extracted a service from you in return for your leg. And presumptuous of you to offer yourself so. If I desire you, I will come to you myself.”

Valanxal studied his feet for a long moment. “Aestith. Has the goddess spoken to you?”

His beseeching tone, more than his words, gave Aestith pause. “Yes. And I serve her always.”

He moved toward the door. “Most of us are never that fortunate.”

_ Fortunate, _  he thought with a sneer.  _ Me, here. _  Valanxal opened the door. Aestith's lips parted to call out, to tell him not to go, to say that he was lonely and homesick, but he stopped.

Valanxal glanced back at him, boldly in his face. The male’s lips curled in something almost a sneer. “I thought you were beautiful. I was wrong. You’re an abomination, and your family is weak for not killing you at birth.”

Aestith glared. “They didn’t know. I didn’t know. This, all of it, happened to me as I aged, not at birth.”

But it didn’t matter; Drow strove for perfection, and Aestith was no perfect specimen of feminine or masculine.

The door closed, leaving him alone. He sunk onto the bed and crossed his arms over his belly, sick with the thought of being here, so far from the Underdark. He wanted more than anything to just go home. Valanxal was wrong.

Lolth had chosen him to a purpose--it had to be. He  _ knew _  that he was doing something wrong, but he just didn’t understand  _ what _ . Had he been here too long? It had been a good place to start, and certainly, he needed to leave, but where to? He had to have more faith.

#

Valanxal left the day after last, striking out into the blinding snow. The weather had lifted, and they had places to be.

“... Having her here is dangerous. How do you know she’s not some advance scout?”

“Aestith has been here since autumn,” the innkeep drawled. “Anyway, she’s a great cook.”

“How long until she poisons everyone? We’re having a baby. We can’t have her around it.”

“She’s around the boy and you don’t mind.”

It was a variation of the same conversation that his landlords had been having for several days, ever since she had discovered that she was pregnant.

“In the spring then…”

Aestith didn’t particularly want to wait that long, and neither did the publican’s wife. Both of their desires, however, were halted by one of the many vile parts of the surface world--the weather. Aestith knew little enough of being on the surface, and traveling in inclement weather was not a skill he knew--and both of the humans were reasonable. When Aestith saw the publican next, he commented that he had every intention to leave when the snow melted. The man seemed relieved, and no doubt prayed for spring.

The woman’s stomach swelled plumply. Under her many layers of wool, Aestith may not have noticed if he didn’t know to look. Because miscarriage and infant death were so common, the couple had not yet told anyone, but the walls were not as thick as they assumed and it was a small town, so their secret did not keep.

She kept away from Aestith, sometimes whispering prayers under her breath, which amused him. Did her god ever speak to her? Did it grant her any power or protection? He smirked, warm with delight despite the chill of the season. If it was stillborn, it would serve her right. And if it wasn’t, turned out perfectly ordinary, well, that suited him too; the drow hadn’t influenced the unborn. Or maybe she would justify it and say it was her own faith and devotion that warded her from his influence. It interested him that, no matter the outcome, she would blame him for the bad and praise her gods for the good. Why?

Drow just weren’t like that. If something bad happened, it could be Lolth, but it was just as likely ill luck--outside the clergy anyway. And if something good happened, it could be Lolth’s favor, or it was just as likely your own cunning and power. Aestith could not grasp the logic of praising a god who seemed to have such little to do with one’s life as these surface deities seemed to. And there were so many! Wasn’t it so much simpler to only serve one?

Just as he had found dwarves to be fascinating, he also found humans fascinating.

The winter was long, and the inn had been visited by many the odd holy woman or man, who had left behind religious pamphlets, tracts, or even a book. Aestith read them all with dull interest that left him angry and irritated. The pamphlets and tracts often said one thing, then when he looked at the source material, it was different, or out of context. Why the deception?

It infuriated him that Lolth was viewed as evil for a desire for blood sacrifice.  _ Then what was Odin doing in that tree if not a sacrifice of himself to himself _ ? And the followers hung people, or christened ships with blood. Aestith usually read a bit, then went to knead out his frustrations and anger on bread dough. Bellan had hinted, many times, that a big part of it was the slavery, though Aestith attributed this more to culture than religion. Besides, he had come to learn of plenty of other cultures and religions whose holy books endorsed slavery--if they ignored it now, that was their prerogative, but it wasn’t what the words read. She had also hinted that it was their blind superiority complex; this too, he ignored, because plenty of other races held similar convictions.

Only once, she mentioned genocide and war-like tendencies, but that still confused Aestith. Humans had repulsively short lives, and they seemed to see peace as an interruption to war. A drow could go a decade without killing someone. Humans couldn’t seem to--plus they took revenge! Drow didn’t. Aestith hypothesized that, once, drow must have taken revenge, then realized how quickly they would genocide themselves with that attitude. Lolth frowned upon revenge-seeking, and rightfully so.  _ She _  had prevented drow from genociding themselves. He had enjoyed killing Nier, and that other boy; it brought him a peace, but he had never actively sought the revenge. Lolth had granted it to him, maybe as some kind of reward, maybe as a test. He hoped he had not failed her; he would rather die than fail her.

In the end, Aestith saw enough parallels in one culture and another to cause discomfort. Now he could only think,  _ They bitch that we’re savage, but they’re just as savage and worse--hypocrites! _  This only solidified his beliefs that drow were superior; he had never been under a delusion that his people weren’t murderous. Humans were.

He had encountered one wood elf who despised Aestith on sight. Aestith held distaste for her, but only the ordinary sort; he didn’t spit in her food or drug her wine. She called him “murderer” under her breath, which bothered him not at all, though this seemed to fuel her hatred, as if he had tacitly admitted to it by not bothering to engage. It had come to a head on her last night at the inn, where she had followed him into the kitchen. She had been drinking, and accused him of being a murderer. He had quietly went about his business, letting her rant until she was spent, then he looked up and said, “Do you feel better?”

That had sparked a new floodgate of incoherent rage and obscenities. And, despite that the world over hated drow, the whole room heard  _ her _  cursing and swearing at him, and heard him asking her gently if letting her anger out helped her.  _ She  _ was the one escorted from the room and told to keep her head about her, not him. And that, too, taught him something about people. If they were angry, it did no good to engage. Let them burn themselves out, let them hurt themselves. He was glad, suddenly, that he so rarely felt anger. What good did it do? It had done her no good at all, had it?

In the morning, she shot him a venomous glare and a sneer of her salmonberry lips. She mouthed “murderer” as if she thought he cared.

If he had ever been taught anything beyond “you should hate the surface elves because we say so”, his distaste of her may have been more founded, but he hadn’t, and his dislike was general, and non-personal.

He left when the roads were in better conditions, and the publican’s wife was swollen with her child. He wondered, in the back of his mind, if it were possible for him to get so swollen--and he sincerely hoped not.

It made him think of other things, things he preferred not to contemplate--his future, namely. Lolth would guide him to a point intentionally or no, for he lived his life under her principles and wishes, but he had to do something with his life. He wouldn’t fit into the old life, so he had to discard it like clothes he had outgrown. What did he want to do?

The thought caused him no small amount of discomfort, for it had never been a question he had been allowed to ask himself. There was no “want”. He did things because he had to, because it was expected, because he had to do certain things and that was the end of it. But what did he want, ultimately?

He supposed… to go home.  _ Next _ , he thought, dismissing it outright.  _ Okay, maybe in the far future. What about the near future? _  He bit his lip as he internally formed and then dismissed plans. He didn’t even know where to go exactly. Wherever the road led.

Which sounded fine in theory, from a comfortable padded chair of a storyteller sitting before a warm fire. In reality, the road wasn’t just fraught with perils for the lone traveler because it was dangerous--Aestith could handle himself and he knew better than to venture into less-traveled places, so he stuck to the main roads and didn’t cut across country even when he may have preferred it. He also wore a cloak pulled up that shadowed his face so that a casual glance would not give away his lineage--and it infuriated him that he felt that was necessary, or even just that it was more convenient to not be as hassled.

Traveling brought a whole host of minor inconveniences, a series of annoyances, and a carnival of unpleasantness. He much preferred travel in the Underdark. There was no  _ weather  _ that left him stuck at an inn for days while he waited for a vile storm to lift. The Underdark had drafts and vents where air might gush suddenly, but it was nothing at all like the wind that plagued the surface world. Enainsi was warm all year around, close to a volcano as it was.

If Aestith looked with the vision to which he had grown up with, in infrared, the night sky was a mass of fire and burning, like a thousand suns coalescing in the sky together. Sometimes, he forgot before he left the indoors, and was blinded by the sight of it before he forcibly switched. On the surface, the stars felt like thousands of eyes staring at him, and the moon seemed to  _ follow _  a person. If he looked at it, it seemed to have a face--which was nonsense but he couldn’t shake the feeling--and that face watched him. It wasn’t pleasant. Much better with a roof over one’s head. To say nothing of the sun!

Aestith could probably illustrate for hours on how awful daylight was, though based on what he could see in infrared of the night sky, he had a deep suspicion that the stars were not that different from the sun, but for whatever reason did not hurt his sensitive eyes as badly. The nicest thing he had to say about the sun was that it was, for a time, pleasantly warm. Then it baked everything dry, then it didn’t show up often enough to keep things warm, then it began the cycle all over again for no conceivable purpose.

Aestith froze suddenly, listening with his head slightly tilted. He wasn’t particularly adept at hunting or tracking himself, but one thing that had always bothered him about the surface was how loud it was. Birds constantly twittering, insects droning, wind, that sort of thing. The birds had stopped. He reached for his rapier, hand on the hilt. Bandits? Aestith had to admit, he made a decent target. Joke was on them, though--he didn’t have enough worth stealing.

The day was cold and gloomy, and that was probably the only thing that saved him; when the wolf moved from the brush, he saw the large, warm body amidst the cool foliage. Its muscles bunched. It leapt. Aestith reached for his shield on his back--too late. It closed the distance between them, all thick fur and claws. Spit dribbled from its teeth. Its heavy paws hit Aestith in the shoulders. Rock and earth slid under his boots. The wolf, heavier than he, brought him down, tumbling.

The rapier slipped from his fingers.

The pair rolled. Aestith’s hands raised automatically to protect his face from the gnashing teeth. Its teeth pierced his flesh, yanking his arm away from his face. Aestith’s eyes widened. The wolf tugged and yanked on the limb. Its fangs caught on the fabric and it jerked its head, only momentarily distracted. The blade was too far, and the knife was at the wrong hip.

His muscles tensed. Unblinking, he whispered a prayer, his devotion to Lolth, his desire that the wolf should suffer. His body erupted in a radiant fire, burning with no heat. The wolf let go of his arm with a pained yelp. Aestith reached toward it. His hands sank into the thick fur and he willed the fires to burn.

The stench of burning fur and scorched earth filled his nostrils. The wolf pulled away, frantically fleeing the fire. The power coursed through Aestith and he pointed at the fleeing animal. “May Lolth take you,” he whispered, half a prayer, half a curse. It filled him to overflowing and he exploded like an engorged waterskin. A bolt of energy, guided by perhaps Lolth herself, struck the wolf in the back, lancing through its singed hide.

The wolf staggered. Blood dripped over the road, and it fell. When Aestith approached it, it was still breathing. It was a mercy to dip the rapier into its neck.

When he wiped the sweat from his brow, he looked over the animal. It was actually rather scrawny, probably starving. Alone, not so unlike himself. A dull throbbing in his sword arm reminded him of the damage the creature had inflicted. His mouth twitched in irritation. He touched the wound with his free hand, murmuring a prayer. Just as before, the flesh knitted. He flexed his arm. The fire that had scorched the wolf had not touched him. Lolth had healed him, had given him the power to slay that which opposed him.

He smiled. He didn’t know, exactly, what this was. Aestith knew his faith, his devotion. He knew that he had healed himself and another, and this new power, too, to harm as well as heal. What was more, he felt, without question, that he could do more. He was limited, not by his own abilities, but by his own ignorance of this power.

He would meditate on it later, and perhaps Lolth might reveal the truth, or--and more preferably--a way for him to discover the truth himself.

This constant moving about on the surface had to stop. Perhaps there was somewhere he would be ever so slightly less conspicuous. A large city, perchance, where he might be able to settle into a slightly better nocturnal routine. He still disliked the surface night, but the thousand eyes of the stars and the glaring face of the moon were preferable to the blinding sun.

He was caught on the road in a sudden temperature drop--another surface atrocity. He had opted to continue until sometime close to nightfall before he stopped to make camp, as his travel had been slow that day, hampered by various surface pestilence as he was. He traveled off the road where he might be somewhat obscured by the brush and protected from windchill by the trees. The night passed in meditation.

While he prayed, he felt his mind detach and float. He watched himself for a time, then his mind winged away, above the tent, and outward, over the trees. He sailed further along the road and spiraled down a path. He hovered just above a building. There were people, pale surface dwellers, moving about. Some knelt in their own devotions. Some did chores or slept. Why was Lolth showing him some inferior monastery?

He was at first willing to accept it as some kind of trickery or maybe he had actually fallen asleep. Sometimes, he could dream, in a sense, during meditation. He wasn’t really certain it had not been false until he saw the way the road bent the next day, and the same monastery. Aestith had trouble telling the pasty surface people apart sometimes, but he thought that some of them were even the same.

He had been meant to come here; he just had to discover the reason. A monk fell into step beside him. “Don’t see many drow here,” he commented.

“No, I should imagine not,” Aestith sighed. People commented on his heritage as if Aestith himself wasn’t aware of it. He wondered what they would do if he pretended to be just as surprised as they were.

A pause. “What brings you here?” The monk stopped, as if he might have desired to say more, but he didn’t. Maybe he asked other people more questions, or a different one.

Aestith halted to study the architecture. “Oh. Just looking. I was nearby.” It wasn’t a lie, exactly. “I just wanted to see it.”

“Are you traveling, then? We get many travelers.”

“With good reason, I should expect,” Aestith mused.  _ Why am I here? _  Greater philosophers than he had questioned that, but with a less practical notion. Aestith would settle for discovering whatever was here for him to learn.

But what under the earth-- _ on  _ the earth--could he learn in some sunlit monastery that was relevant to his own life? He should know better than that by now; there was a purpose to this.

“Would you care for a tour of the grounds?”

Aestith blinked. The monk was trying to make sure that Aestith was under supervision. He shook his head, as if oblivious. “Oh, no I do not wish to trouble you so. Please, I am sure you have better things to do than to make certain that I do not get lost on a manicured lawn.” He flashed a smile.

The monk faltered, but recovered. “Oh, there are things that travelers might miss. I can show you some of the carvings, or have you ever seen the inside of a church of Tyr?”

Aestith shook his head politely. “No, but it’s…” He searched briefly through his memory for the proper phrase. “But the day is pleasant and I have little desire to go inside just yet, if you please. Excuse me.”

He was watched at all times as he walked around the monastery grounds. A paladin in armor let his hand rest on his sword as Aestith passed him. Aestith found that almost amusing.

As he passed the pond, in the shade of the fruit trees, a cleric passed instruction to a gaggle of acolytes. She raised a hand and chanted a prayer, which the acolytes said with her slightly out of sync. Light blossomed over her hand. Aestith’s throat was dry and he felt suddenly dizzy. He turned his head from the sight. His breath caught in his throat. With a trembling hand, he clutched his chest as if to contain his pounding heart. His stomach flopped, but not in fear. Trepidation and awe, yes, but not at some paltry surface monastery or cleric; Lolth had blessed him more than he realized.

_ I’m a cleric. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found some pictures from NASA of infrared night skies. I gotta say, drow would make really amazing astronomers/navigators. They'd hate it.


	13. Blue

The mere knowledge of what this power actually was made Aestith’s spine straighten with pride, instead of his head bow with shame over what he was. He was a cleric of Lolth, despite that he had been born male, and despite that Valanxal had named him an abomination. No shame could live in him as long as that pride.

Aestith was not a particularly skilled cleric, as of yet, and certainly not a learned one, but he was devout to the point of obsession, and maybe that was all that mattered. He had never been taught all the subtle intricacies of the Church of Lolth, and maybe that was to his advantage, because he would be whatever Lolth shaped of him, with no preconceived notions on how things ought to be.

He was able to find a diary from a cleric of Helm in a bookstore for a paltry fee. A quick glance told him that she had been meticulous, and in the margins, she had written notes. It was a completely different deity of course, but some of the concepts were similar and Aestith could pray for guidance or make up the rest of it. The spells, which is what he was after, were detailed.

He justified this with simple logic--no spells simply came into being. Someone had to write the first one, had to figure out how to do it the first time. Those people laid the groundwork, and everyone else built off of it and perfected it, but the original wasn’t wrong. It was the same with religious rituals. Over time, the guesswork was perfected and eventually, it became a tradition.

Familiarity with the diary bred a dull contempt; she had droned on about some boy for pages before she would say anything useful. Aestith read it anyway as an interesting study on how a human mind worked. Apparently, it involved a lot of whinging.

He ultimately dissected the diary, splicing out what was useful from what wasn’t and disposing of it. He kept the useful bits in a bundle. Books were expensive in the Underdark. Paper wasn’t exactly in high supply, though there were things that could be made into it--it was usually vellum. Aestith resented the surface its ease of resources. No wonder the trade routes were so coveted, and small wonder the people here were so vulnerable.

And with the family assets divided between his sisters, it was a small wonder Virabel had wanted to consolidate it. If it actually had been her; Aestith realized that he didn’t really know. It could have been any of them, and Virabel had just become infuriated and stomped off to defend the caravan herself. Was there more to the story he didn’t know? Would likely never know, come to think of it.

He missed home.

He resented that too.

How could he go home? He had been on the surface, not just for raiding, but for an extended period of time!  _ What they don’t know isn’t my problem, _ he told himself. Worked all the time in a number of other situations--deny, deny, deny. Or, favorite,  _ so what? _ Aestith was out discovering new things, finding things of use, proselytizing at runaway drow--what were they doing?

_ What were his sisters doing? _

There was still so much he didn’t know.

His own ignorance burned like a flame in his mind, bright and scorching. Like the pyre the humans were building. Aestith watched them from the inn’s window with dull fascination. It was what humans would have called “dreary” and Aestith thought of as “as pleasant as daytime ever gets”. He should buy a hat at some point, except then it would be terrible for his meticulously cared for hair.

The pyre was for burning a person on a stake. In Enainsi, murder wasn’t exactly strictly illegal. If you stabbed someone, no one would look into the matter. If you  _ publically _ stabbed someone--that is to say, left witnesses or other evidence--that was a problem and the mighty hand of the Matron Mothers would come down hard upon an entire house for such misgivings. Keep your family in line. He personally thought Rix had it right; there was a great deal of strength in family if the family will work together.

Humans punished the individual, which was slightly misguided but Aestith attributed it to a human’s strong desire for individuality and cultural norms. All of which was fine. Individuals were punished all the time in Enainsi too. But he couldn’t shake the sour taste on the back of his tongue at the horrifying thought that an entire  _ town _ came together to lash someone to a stake and would stand around jeering and spitting as they burned alive.  _ Barbarians. _

Absolutely vile, and they looked at him as if he were some murderous villain. He had never built a pyre and burned someone at the stake for what passed for public entertainment.

He hated hypocrisy.

His fingers twitched in the beginnings of a spell. He took a deep, calming breath and let it pass. What should he have expected? For other races to be civilized?

He picked up his pack and made his way to the door before they had began lashing the victim to the pole. The begging from the victim didn’t bother him so much. It was the barbarous cheering of the crowd that made his skin crawl. Aestith had once sat on the roof of the family home with Jaalie, while a House opposite and a level down from them was razed. He remembered watching it indifferently. They certainly hadn’t cheered, even though the family had committed murder.

If a Rix murdered someone from Innis, you could easily assume the whole family was in on it. It wasn’t that different. Except that drow didn’t insist on a horrifying farce of a rigged trial, public humiliation, and a torturous death before a jeering crowd. Drow might capture and torture them, but usually the murderer went down fighting.

Outside, the noisy crowd was not filtered through a wall and dulled. The whole spectacle made bile rise in Aestith’s throat.  _ How dare they judge me _ .

“Not to your taste, drow?’ someone sneered.

Aestith suppressed a sigh, but didn’t take the obvious bait. It wasn’t worth his time, and he didn’t want to stick around for this. After the burning, the villagers’ blood would be up, they might drink, and Aestith thought it was in his best interest if he were elsewhere.

The man, perhaps offended by Aestith’s ignoring him, snapped, “Thought this would be right up your alley.”

The man’s yelling had drawn a few onlookers. Aestith kept walking, but the man staggered after him. He reeked of drink and piss. Aestith knew better than to reply; that was a debate he wasn’t interested in. He didn’t care about the raiding, and he cared even less about the raiding “victims”. If they weren’t strong enough to stand on their own, let the weak be culled. Humans did it to one another all the time, and worse.

If drow were half as barbaric as humans were, there wouldn’t be any surfacers.

Leaning against the wall, the man gave a last antagonizing shout, “That’s right. Crawl back into your caves, rat!”

Humans and other sun people would never cease to puzzle Aestith. Why did they say such uncouth things and then, if pushed, lacked the will to stand with their own convictions? Aestith wasn’t any older than many of them and still knew better. Let them keep their petty vengeance and call it justice if it pleased them. Aestith could see no difference between one and the other.

The temperature dropped rapidly by late afternoon. Aestith was in no mood to try camping and thought, if he just picked up his feet, he might make it to the next town over. The clouds, when he looked up at them, were a deep violet shade, which meant snow. Snow. This late. Aestith hated the surface. More accurately, he misliked the sky. Why was it so blue? Blue was a lichen color, a mushroom maybe. It was an eye color, something found in dye, jewels, maybe paint or an exotic feather. It was sickening that the sky was so blue. Blue was for decoration.

The snow fell before he made it to the town, and the world quickly turned white as he stomped his way down the road. He shivered, glancing again at the dark sky. Pinpoints of cold and colder. If he looked up too long, it gave him the strangest sensation of falling. He stared downwards instead, head bent against the weather. Snow collected on his hood and stuck to his eyelashes. It melted on his cheeks.

The sound of a mouse screaming made him glance upward as he crested the hill. He stopped, his spine rigid.

Aestith was tired of looking at snow. You see one horrible, blinding sunset or sunrise over a snow-capped landscape, and you’ve seen them all. The same oranges and yellows and sparkling white with a pale sky. Each was just as optically offensive as the last. This one was somehow worse.

He faltered, then stepped uncertainly forward on a shaking leg. He shook his head, unable to comprehend the vast emptiness. The sky had been huge when he had first seen it, this giant thing that went from side to side, but it had boundaries and obstructions by mountains, forests, hills. Something interrupted it, even if it were bigger than he was accustomed.

His mouth felt dry. The sky was huge. It was this giant, empty space hanging above his head like a weight ready to drop. So much space, so much emptiness between himself and it. His skin crawled, the breath tightened in his lungs. It was a ceiling with no supports. What was holding it up? It was a canopy hanging in the air with no supports, falling gently and slowly downwards. For how long could it hang there? How long before it fell down and covered him?

He reached out to steady himself. His gloved hand brushed the snowy boughs of a tree. The snow piled around him, wet and frozen. The branch creaked at his touch and offered no support. 

The earth ended.

Aestith had seen rivers, lakes and ponds. He had even tromped through a swamp. This was like a lake, but it wasn’t. The water rolled and splashed against the land. The waves foamed like a frothing dog and left a vomit of green tangled vines and bleached sticks like bones on the earth. Aestith’s breath frosted. The cold stung his eyes as surely as the sun did.

The sun…

He had had the misfortune to see it many times, and learned quickly not to look at it directly as he might a candle or a cooking fire. It squatted low on the far side of the sky, where the water seemed to touch it. The water--the huge, endless expanse of water--held its reflection.

“Why is it so big,” Aestith gasped. His heart hammered in his chest. He clutched at his throat. It felt too tight.

His snow mask was suffocating him. The sky was oppressing him, bearing down on him. The sea made his stomach clench. He staggered back, away from the sight, and ripped the knitted snow mask down to his neck. He choked on gulps of snow-cold air, then collapsed to his knees. Cradling his stomach, he heaved its contents onto the white snow. The smell of his own vomit made him seize again. He spit and wheeled back from it. He rinsed his mouth with snow, spitting several more times.

When his head stopped spinning, he searched his pack for the wineskin and rinsed out his mouth with a gagging cough. He kept his eyes on the ground as he stepped, carefully not looking that way again.

He did make it to the town. There was even a bunkhouse and while Aestith had no doubt he paid some kind of overhead “hazard fee” for existing within the vicinity, he got a bed. Of course, he didn’t actually sleep, but when he had rested, he moved about quietly in the shared kitchen until he had prepared a small meal and ate. He prayed, cleaned himself. He left before anyone was awake, but not only for the early start; he wanted to see the ocean on his own terms.

By then, the clouds had dispersed and the snow was turning to ice before it melted. The dim light of the hunter’s moon was even too bright for Aestith’s comfort, but it was more bearable. At night, it was easier. The stars made the sky seem lesser somehow; it added depth and perspective where the blue lacked it.  _ Blue _ . He hadn’t known so much blue even existed before he came up here. Blue should have been a special, rare color. Color should be more sparing. It should be rare and vibrant, flashy. He knew that color was everywhere anyway; it was just that in infrared, he rarely saw them as such.

The sea was dark, and when he closed his eyes and listened to it, it was even soothing. He watched the waves, slowly growing accustomed to their rhythmic crash. The point where the sea met the sky was the horizon. Aestith had only known the word as a nonsensical term before. Now it filled him with a sickening shudder.

The second day was better. He couldn’t look at it, not all at once, but its presence didn’t make him sick. He wanted so badly to go home.


	14. Guild

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The backstory is more or less complete now and we are getting into where our campaign started.

Waterdeep seemed to collect stupidity. It floated in like jetsam from the sea, or oozed in from the surrounding countryside until it became an entire melting pot of bad decisions. Aestith did not believe he was the sole intelligent one in a flood of idiocy or that he was immune to these bad decisions; to the contrary, in fact--or else why would he be there?

Guild 538 would take just about anyone, including a drow of questionable origin. Aestith rested at the guild only for a handful of days before he found precisely what he was looking for. He scouted out routes, moved things around, until it was exactly as he wished it; not difficult to access exactly, but inconvenient. The old crates around the alley to the warehouse basement had already cluttered the alley, and by the look of things, had been there for some time. He spent days carefully moving them around to full obscure the alley, and particularly the door to the basement. The warehouse hunched on the site of what used to be some large house that had since been demolished. Its cellar was left intact with a rusted chain holding the old doors shut. Aestith thought it would have been difficult to open even with a set of keys. The cellar itself was stone and clay in no particular pattern or order, the steps leading down it old boards he had to carefully and strategically replace. He preferred that the first step creaked loudly, and skipped it on the way down himself. The cot was the hardest thing to move into the cellar, but he managed it by throwing it into a wheelbarrow and maneuvering it down the stairs with a pulley. He salvaged a table from an alley, a chair from another one. When that was finished, he made small purchases.

He needed a censor, a brazier, coal. And glass--he needed glass instruments. He was able to afford only some rudimentary varieties of impure glass, but it would do. He started by collecting the spores from the dried mushrooms. That took a fair amount of time, mostly consumed by waiting. He passed the time by signing up for a job here and there at the guild. These jobs were primarily fetching something lost or stolen, killing kobolds and goblins, or something of that nature--nothing really worth doing, but the money bought him more supplies and better equipment.

He started cultivating spiders too, because he liked them mostly. It gave him something to do when there was nothing better to occupy his time.

He was delighted when the mushroom spores could be harvested, and proud of himself when he was able to start growing them in a small trunk. While they were growing, he wondered what the best way to distribute it was. The drugs were illegal here.

He had planned to distill the mushroom oil already--perhaps he could put it in something? Who did he want to distribute to? Making the drugs wasn’t the hard part, he decided; it was finding a consumer.

He wasn’t as interested in money as he was information, and loyalty. An idea trickled at the back of his mind. He kept it in mind as he headed toward the guildhall--a dingy place with a sad sign out front. Douglas manned his desk like a turret. The man would let anyone join so long as they paid their dues, which were low, but he still watched Aestith.

There hadn’t been any work available that especially interested Aestith, not since the bit with the lizard wrangling. That had gone rather well, all things considered, but he hated kobolds and after that, didn’t like lizards so much either.

Wiltorin bickered with Brass Monkey about what job they should take. Aestith glanced at the job board, surprised to find any at all that interested him. Eilora sat at a table, feeding something to her honey badger. The wood elf occasionally voiced an opinion, but despite that she was generally the oldest in the room at 112, she was usually apathetic. Neither he nor Eilora would ever  _ like _ one another; they held a strained tolerance for one another and to keep a relative peace, never addressed  _ why _ .

Aestith frowned and walked over to them. “Where are you going?”

The half-elf broke her discussion with Monkey and glanced at him. “I want to help the Lady Sylvia.”

He wrinkled his nose. “That job hardly pays at all!”

“That’s what I said!” Brass Monkey, a human ruffian of sorts, agreed. Aestith had no idea if that were the man’s real name or some sort of title.

The group broke out in more bickering. Aestith listened as it went back and forth for a while then he yelled, “Stop! You’re not getting anywhere. Is anyone familiar with tiered voting? Everyone gets two votes. We’ll eliminate the least popular one, then vote again and pick only one. All right?”

They seemed, for the most part, to understand the concept, except Wiltorin only voted once and as a result, it was uneven and they had to vote a second time.

The vote was then tied perfectly between a charity case involving a missing child, and cleaning up the mansion of some wizard fratboy named Lance--because it paid well.

“--All I’m saying is, we’re not a cleaning service,” Wiltorin continued.

“It’s probably a magical nature,” Aestith mused. He glanced at Monkey. “And maybe there’s something to steal while we’re there?” The second part he said with his voice low. Monkey brightened.

“Look, we can at least ask about the missing kid. His mother is in the docks somewhere anyway, right? He’s probably just lost somewhere.”

“Why would anyone care about a damned boy? He’s probably already been raped and murdered,” Aestith muttered.

“All the more reason we should go!”

They bickered for a time, and Aestith complained. They threatened to leave him until he reminded them he was the only one who could heal. His brow creased in thought. They needed him. He laced his fingers together. “All right. I agree to help. However, in the event that the boy was kidnapped, I’d like to sacrifice the kidnapper to Lolth.”

The others fell silent. Slowly, all eyes turned toward the half-elf paladin. She fumed and fussed then threw up her hands. “You know what? In that incredibly unlikely scenario, sure. Sacrifice away.”

Aestith smiled. “Excellent. Lead the way.”

He plodded behind the others as they took a mostly straightforward course to the tavern that Sylvia worked at. The woman was haggard, but doing her best to be cheerful as she worked. Aestith was unsurprised, though disgusted, when she burst into tears at the merest mention that they were looking for her son. Monkey used the opportunity to take advantage of the grieving woman and offer to comfort her in a manner that was oddly suggestive. Why weren’t these surface people more straightforward with their ambitions? Males should be more submissive, though.

Eilora showed her pet a child-sized shirt that the boy’s mother kept in a pocket. It was damp with the human’s tears. Monkey had to be pulled away as they headed back toward the street Sylvia had last seen her son. They discussed the few leads they had, such as querying the neighbors or any friends he might have had. Such a plan was laid to waste, however, when the badger sniffed the air on the street, snuffling madly at the pockmarked gutters. It growled and pawed at the manhole cover. They let out a collective groan.

“Eilora, are you sure?” Wiltorin complained.

The wood elf looked at the honey badger, at the sewer opening, then patted her pet’s head. “Yeah. I’m sure he’s down there.”

“That’s disgusting. He’s probably dead,” Aestith muttered.

“Think of it like a cave,” Monkey said. He and the paladin worked at lifting the manhole cover.

“We can at least look,” the half-elf insisted.

The smell from the sewers would have made a buzzard look up from a dead buffalo. “Do you know what the Waterdavian sewers are like?” Aestith complained.

“No.”  
“Neither do I! And I’d prefer to keep it that way.” Nevertheless, he reluctantly climbed down the ladder. Monkey came behind him and closed the cover. There was some complaining, a few stepped on toes, more complaints about the smell. Aestith rolled his eyes. The badger sniffed like a bloodhound and they were fast after it. Monkey’s eyes lingered on a door on the other side of the foul water.

“Hold up,” he called. Aestith waited on the corner, glancing down the passage at the rest of the group. They halted.

“Come on, we don’t have time for this,” the paladin complained.

Aestith began to reply, but a scream from Eilora stopped him. Something bright and warm emerged from the cold gray of the sewer water, long and sleek. Massive jaws clamped around the badger. He had assumed that the rumors of alligators down here was a myth, but myths typically didn’t attack badgers.

Aestith swore, reaching for his crossbow. The badger hissed and spat. Eilora fumbled for her bow and the half-elf shoved in front of her. Wiltorin bashed the alligator in the snout. It lost its grip on the badger and it dropped in a bloody heap of fur.

“Cakecake!” Eilora cried. 

_ What a stupid name _ , Aestith thought. He aimed, but he couldn’t get a clear shot of the creature with Eilora and Wiltorin in the way. He aimed to the side, at the body still hidden under the water. He had no idea if it hit or not. Monkey finally looked up from his lockpicking. He stared longingly at the door and its hidden mysteries, and back at the other two.

“Can’t you go help them?” he yelled.

Aestith made a face and loaded another shot. The paladin slipped on the grimy surface, landing hard on her ass. The gator’s teeth caught on her blade. She scrambled backwards, slipped again. Eilora’s trembling fingers notched an arrow. It glanced off the alligator’s tough scales with a clacking sound.

Aestith swore and ran forward, unslinging his shield.

“Aestith, help Cakecake!” Eilora cried.

Cursing and swearing, Aestith pushed past both of them to the bloodied badger. The crossbow slid into its holster. He bent to touch its matted fur. Its breathing stabilized. The alligator’s tail swung toward Aestith. His shield took the brunt of it, but it forced him against the slime-covered wall. The wind pushed from his lungs and he gasped.

Monkey leapt back across the water, skidded on the grime and stabbed the alligator once, twice. Eilora helped Wiltorin find her footing. Aestith whispered a short prayer. The gator seemed to glisten and sparkle before it ignited, bathed in a radiant light, but a kind of light that didn’t hurt. The paladin’s blade found its tender underbelly. A vicious slash cut it open and it fell into the sewage. If it hadn’t already died, it was sure to die of infection if nothing else.

“Oh, Cakecake!” Eilora wept, holding the badger. Aestith made a face and tapped the badger again on the head. When the beast opened his eyes and licked Eilora’s face, it seemed to stop her crying, at least.

“Can we move on now?”

“Wait,” Monkey complained, stalking back to his door.

“Are you fucking serious?” Wiltorin complained.

Aestith followed Monkey, but stayed on one side of the water. Monkey hopped back across. Eilora spoke soothingly in low tones to the badger. The paladin fawned over it equally. Aestith made a face and his fingers twitched, then opened. Thaumaturgic energy tingled down his frame and into the earth. The passage gave a faint tremor.

Cakecake jibbered like a lunatic and hid against Eilora’s neck. She patted it and tried to calm it. Wiltorin looked about, but not immediately seeing anything wrong, went back to helping Eilora calm down the badger. Aestith smirked. Monkey, ignoring the tremors, had worked the door open and went inside the storage room. 

A squeak reverberated down the passage, followed by the skittering of claws on old stone. Eilora shrieked, pointing. The rats spilled from holes and swam in the filth. When they scented blood, they moved toward the badger. Eilora stood over Cakecake defensively. The half-elf moved to protect them. The rats were nearly of a size with the badger, probably riddled with disease and parasites. Aestith assumed that they could handle the matter and, taking a running start, leapt over the channel. He landed more heavily than intended but upright on the other side. He poked his head into the room. “Monkey, did you find anything?”

Monkey jerked and spun around in the gloom. Aestith sighed and produced a small globe of dim light, which he sent to hover over the human’s shoulder. Monkey shrugged. “Old boxes.”

Aestith raised an eyebrow. “Right.” He glanced back at the other two. They didn’t appear to be fairing as well as Aestith assumed they might have.

“Aestith! A little help here?” they called.

“Monkey! Where are you?”

Aestith and Brass Monkey looked at one another in the gloom. The drow cleric realized that the pair were unwittingly making a decision; help or leave them be. The snarl of the rats echoed down the sewer tunnel. Aestith sighed and turned to race along the channel. He had to leap back across. Off-balance, he tottered for a moment, prayed he wouldn’t fall in, then pitched his weight forward to keep from falling back. He trod on a rat’s tail as he did. The creature spun, rearing on its hind legs to hiss before it lunged at his legs. Its fangs bit and sank. He grimaced and kicked it loose. Eilora’s badger was underfoot so she had to compensate for its erratic behavior. The half-elf moved around Eilora in a desperate bid to keep them off of her.

“Cakecake, kill!” Eilora yelled. The simple order seemed to penetrate deep into the honey badger’s thick skull and sink into its primitive brain. It turned from trying to hide behind its mistress’s legs and careened at the nearest rat. A crunch of bone made Aestith twitch with memory-- _ Nier cringing at the pitiful squeakings of a rat _ . The badger tossed its head. The broken body of the rat sunk into the sludge.

As quickly as it had happened, it was over. “Is everyone all right?” Wiltorin said.

“Cakecake?” Eilora cooed, kneeling beside it. It snarled only lazily as she poked at the blood to see how much was his. “Aestith?”

He heaved a sigh and walked over to the badger.  _ So this is what I’m reduced to _ . He hated to think that he had spent hours out of his life piecing together and learning spells, his fanatical devotion and prayers, all amounting to healing a wood elf’s pet. He did it anyway, if only for the grim satisfaction that the fae-blooded elf needed a drow to do something she wasn’t able to.

“Can Cakecake pick up the trail again?” the half-elf inquired.

Eilora looked at her pet. “I don’t know,” she admitted. She squatted on her haunches beside the beast. “Cakecake, where’s the boy?”

The badger sniffed the air, looked down one way of the intersection, then the other. Its eyes lingered down the left passage, then it leaned against Eilora. She shrugged.

The group bickered briefly, looked at the right passage, then settled on the left. They had gone only a short ways when Aestith, now at the front of the group, stopped. The half-elf nearly ran into him.

“What the hell?” she demanded.

He tilted his head slightly, debated briefly whether or not he should bother to inform them, and pointed. “Do you see that? They’re poisonous.” He gestured at the mushrooms growing on the side of the tunnel. He was partway bluffing; he wasn’t entirely sure if they were truly poisonous, but they looked rather a lot like a breed of mushroom in the Underdark he  _ knew _ was poisonous. You could breed toxins out of a plant to make it palatable, but he doubted such a thing would be done for something growing in a sewer.

“We could go back the other way?” Eilora suggested.

“Maybe Cakecake was wrong about the sewer,” Aestith said blandly. His nose wrinkled.

Wiltorin shook her head. “No. No it makes sense that the kid disappeared down here, right? This is on the kid’s street. It’s—”

“So there’s a grate on the other side,” Monkey commented walking back toward them. He held a torch in one hand. Aestith flinched at the light. “No way he fit through it.”

Wiltorin glanced at the mushrooms. “Let’s just look and see.”

With some complaints, they looked over the mushroom-covered passage. Aestith didn’t much fancy walking beside them, but the only alternative was to wade through the muck--and if that wasn’t bad enough, apparently there were alligators in it.

The paladin looked over the spores, then hopped directly into the muck. She covered her face with a hand and forged ahead. Aestith made a face.

Monkey went after her, his head down. Aestith watched impassively as the spores wafted in the air. He coughed viciously, held his breath, and kept on. Aestith realized that he was alone with Eilora, and followed Monkey’s path. He wanted to swathe through the mushrooms with a righteous fire, but while it would help in the future, that would make it infinitely worse right now, so he tried to breathe shallowly and hurry across. He held his breath much of the way, his eyes watering and his chest tight with pain. Only when he was well past it did he breathe in shallowly, carefully dusting his face with his cloak. He gagged and coughed, half at the smell and half at the spores. Eilora came next with Cakecake in her wake. The badger bumped into her legs a time or two and she nearly lost her footing, then she joined them.

The main passage ended at a heavy iron grate, but a small side passage continued at a left turn. They followed the maintenance tunnel. It was drier than the rest, though the smell wasn’t much improved. It ended in a similar door to the one Monkey had tinkered with previously.

Wordlessly, they parted to let Brass Monkey through. Wiltorin took the torch while he worked. Aestith hung away from it. He hated the light nearby when they were somewhere dark. It confused his vision.

The door clicked open. Monkey opened the door and strolled in. The others hung back.

“Oh, hello!” Monkey said. “I was just doing a routine inspection. Are things going well?”

“Yes. Please leave,” a new voice said.

“I won’t be long,” Monkey drawled. “Say, what’s that in the cage?”  
“I’m studying it.”

“Odd place to study something.”

“Leave. Now.”

Monkey backed up a pace until he was in the doorway. He crooked a finger behind his back, beckoning the others. “What did you say your name was, sir?”

Wiltorin pushed past him. “Sir, I was just coming in here with this… maintenance man. We’re conducting an investigation about a missing child. Perhaps you can give us some information—”

“I don’t know anything about a missing child. Children shouldn’t play in sewers. Now please leave as I have work to do.”

Aestith’s teeth gritted. He snatched his crossbow and stormed past Monkey and the half-elf. The room was simple, permeated with the smell of excrement. Torches flared in the wall brackets and large holes dotted the walls close to the floor. A shabby pinewood desk hunched near the far wall. A rat, larger than Cakecake, sat docile in a cage opposite the desk. Near the right wall next to the cage was a man in dirty leathers and almost as scruffy as Brass Monkey.

Aestith said, “Tell us the truth or I shoot your pet.”

“Then do it!” The man’s lips curled over his teeth in a murine snarl. Aestith’s finger squeezed the hair trigger. The paladin’s eyes widened in horror as a realization settled over her head. She shoved Aestith to the side. The bolt struck against the side of the cage with a metallic clang. Aestith staggered.

The man plucked a flute from his sleeve and blew into it, fingers sailing over the length of wood. Eilora ran through the door with an arrow notched. The scurry of clawed feet echoed from the holes in the walls.

Wiltorin rushed at the man. Eilora shot over the paladin’s shoulder, narrowly missing her own ally. Cakecake lumbered forward, stuck his head into a hole and bit something that screamed. Aestith whispered a prayer, fingers twitched. A radiant fire bathed the man and his playing briefly faltered. He wove around the paladin’s blows, then the flute disappeared up his sleeve to be replaced by a rapier.

Monkey stuck a torch into a hole. A rat scurried from an unguarded hole. It leapt onto the paladin’s back. She trained her attention on the man in front of her. Aestith swapped the crossbow for his own rapier and moved in to skewer the rat.

Eilora aimed at the man. Another rat emerged from the tunnel and her aim shifted toward it. It squeaked and twitched violently, but pulled itself forward. No animal of its own accord would have.

Wiltorin bashed the man with her shield and wrestled him down. His head clipped the desk and he went limp.

The rats in the walls continued to come, slowly, inching forward. They feared the light, but there were other holes. Monkey shoved another torch into a hole. Eilora moved to assist her pet. Wiltorin helped Monkey while Aestith finished off the injured rat.

When all the holes were secured, Eilora pointed at the cage. Her jaw dropped, but from her mouth, there was only a low gasp of surprise. Aestith glanced at it. Where there had been a large rat, there was now a small, sleeping child.

Wiltorin’s shoulders sagged. “Well. Thanks for not killing the kid, Aestith.”

Aestith stared flatly at the infected child. “It’s a danger to everyone around it. There will be a were-rat epidemic. The child should be put down.”

“It’s a  _ child _ ,” the paladin insisted. Monkey pulled the flute from the man’s sleeve, then wandered over to the desk drawers.

“It’s a  _ were-rat _ that will spread disease.”

“We should just return him to his mother,” Eilora said. “She’s worried sick.”

“And soon she’ll be infected too,” Aestith muttered darkly, then frowned in consideration. He didn’t really see anything wrong with the child being allowed to run loose and infecting others--except that  _ he _ lived in the same ward. He knelt beside the body, pleased to find the man still breathing. A smirk crept across his lips. “In regards to our agreement, I will require a few minutes, if you please.”

Wiltorin’s jaw dropped in astonishment and her gaze flicked from the man to Aestith. “But…”

“I believe we had an agreement. Unless you’d care to go back on your word?”

Her hands clenched into fists and for a moment, it seemed that it might come to blows, then she deflated. She took the keys from the man’s belt and unlocked the cage while Aestith prepared for the ritual. She and Eilora removed the boy and ferried him into the hall. Monkey ignored them as he worked at a lock on the desk.

Aestith rolled the man onto his back and cut the man’s wrist. Using the blood, the young drow began the ritual. Without a proper altar, he resorted to a mural of a spider’s web, the man at the center. He had to work quickly. He carved a similar pattern into the man’s forehead, mimicked it in the man’s blood on Aestith’s forehead.

Connected.   
One.

The sacrifice and the deliverer.

Aestith’s heart pounded. “Lolth, receive your sacrifice.” He plunged the dagger down. For an instant, the torch lights all went out, plunging the room into a darkness more complete than any Aestith had ever known. The world was a vast inky blackness, and he saw nothing, not because he was blind, but because there was simply nothing to see. No definition, no walls, no floor. A tingling, tickling sensation welled over him like a thousand spiders crawled over his skin. His face flushed. His skin felt hot. His loins felt wet. His lashes fluttered.

The room came back as suddenly as it had left, as if nothing at all had changed. Monkey worked at the desk, oblivious. Aestith sucked air into his lungs, chest heaving as if under a great strain, but he felt as if a burden had been lifted. He felt free and light.

He felt happy.

His lips curved into a genuine smile of satisfaction. He could want nothing more.

Despite that, he took his portion of the coins Monkey had found in the drawer. He didn’t even mind going back through the mushroom spores. Wiltorin carried the child. Aestith’s mood could not even be dampened by having to walk back outside into daylight.

Aestith hung back at the sight of two guards and said, “They’re going to stop me as we pass. I suggest I go first and while they are busy with me, you can go past unmolested.”

“Why do you think they’d have problems with us?” Eilora’s tone conveyed a hint of sarcasm, laced with suspicion. Aestith ignored it.

He raised an eyebrow. “Beyond that I’m a drow?” He gestured at the child, glanced at Monkey meaningfully. “Look at us.”

“A fair point. All right, go ahead,” Wiltorin said darkly. Monkey stayed a short distance behind Aestith. The drow walked past, and was unsurprised when the guards stopped him.

“Oi, what’s this?” the guard said.

The mark of blood on Aestith’s forehead had long since dried and flaked off, looking like nothing so much as a bloody print. Aestith smiled serenely, well aware of how he must smell after being in the sewer. He stepped unnecessarily close to the guard and slapped the man’s shoulder in a friendly way. The guard grimaced. 

Aestith drawled, “Just on an errand for my guild. Here’s my guild papers, just a moment, sir.” Aestith took longer than necessary as Monkey slipped past. Aestith seemed to struggle to locate the papers, then unfolded the cheap parchment. He flipped it upside-down toward the guard, then moved it back correctly. “See, right there.” He waved it about.

Eilora skated by.

The guard tried to step from Aestith, but Aestith moved with him. Aestith continued, “Very important business at Guild 562—”

“It says—”

“So at Guild 587, we always say, do you know what we say?”

The man sighed. He held the look of a man defeated by his life choices. “No…”

“Well, at my guild, you see, that’s Guild 524, we say—” The paladin shuffled past with the child. “We say, thank you so much for doing your very difficult job. It’s a hard life, guarding and all that.” Aestith slapped him on the shoulder again then whisked away the papers. The guard waved him on, stepping further back. Aestith grinned manically and hurried away.

The others were whispering when he arrived.

Monkey glanced sidelong at Aestith. “Should we tell Sylvia?”

“Probably,” he said dully.

The boy did not stir the entire walk to the tavern Sylvia worked at. Aestith happened to be the first one through the door. “Human female!” he declared. “We have procured your spawn.”

Sylvia looked at him over her tray of empty mugs. Her eyes were red with crying. “What?” Her eyes widened as Wiltorin, carrying her child, stepped after Aestith. She nearly dropped the tray, set it down on the bar behind her, and stumbled toward them, reaching. She laughed as tears welled in her eyes, grabbed the boy, grabbed Wiltorin as she wept with joy. Aestith stepped away before she thought to grab him as well.

Wiltorin and Monkey pulled Sylvia away to the kitchen for a more private conversation. The paladin came back alone with a dim glower.

Her voice came clipped, “Monkey is escorting Sylvia and her son home.”

Aestith smirked. “Indeed.” They moved to the street and started the walk back to the guildhall.

Eilora stretched. “You told her, then?”

“Yeah.” Wiltorin threw her hands in the air. “We need to find a cure.”

Aestith rolled his eyes. “I suggest an axe.”

“Aestith, we’re not murdering a child.”

He shrugged. “If you are too weak to do it, report him to the city watch. They’ll do it.”

“We are not going to do that!”

He rolled his eyes. “Suit yourself.” He went to the guild only long enough to be paid, and left quickly.

The boy did not run when Aestith approached, perhaps out of curiosity, or even simply knowing that the unknown had to be better than the squalid life of a street urchin. The boy was about fifteen, reed-thin with hair so grimy it was impossible to tell the color. 

Aestith said, “Do you like peppermint?” He at first offered it from his hand, reflected that this might be frightening for the child, and set it on the lid of the trashcan between them. Aestith turned. When he did, he heard the tin clank of the can, and bare feet slapping against damp stone. When he turned back, the candy was gone.

***

Spider silk sheets slipped against oiled skin. Ondalia stretched and rolled to look at the male in bed beside her. One of his eyes slid open in the gloom. A slave, ceremoniously bled and tied to the bedpost whimpered somewhere between want and pain.

“Sailanshin. Wake Kai and untie those slaves and toss them out of here, will you?” Her voice was a velvet purr.

His lips pursed in displeasure, but his head bowed in submission. He rose from the bed. The loose braid of pale grey hair brushed against his spine. The stone floor would be cold to the touch.

He paced around the bed. His fingertips brushed over the skin of one of the slaves, who shivered and seemed torn between the polar desires to shrink from him and curve into his touch. He was less gentle with Kai. The boy woke with a start, and Sailanshin caught his wrist when he moved his fist toward him, then the sleep left the boy and he shifted sheepishly.

“Get up. Help me get these slaves out of here.”

“Why?” Kai groaned.

“Because I said so,” Sailanshin answered flatly.

Ondalia wondered if the two might have the same sire, as their expressions were really remarkably similar, when they were displeased as well as pleased. Kai moved from the bed, and would have gotten a knife, but Sailanshin cuffed him. Kai picked at the knot with his fingernails pathetically. Sailanshin eventually waved him over to show him the trick of the knots. Sailanshin had one slave untied while Kai still struggled with the first. Ondalia stretched over the bed as she observed their progress. Two male slaves, two female, so drugged and wanton with lust and pain that they shivered every time either drow touched them.

Ondalia’s gaze trickled to Sailanshin, the thin line down to his groin as red-hot as a fire. But Ondalia had told him to remove the slaves, the unwilling witnesses to the act, who had so desperately wanted to join and been unable to. Ondalia smiled, her long legs splayed as if inviting, but she had told him to get out of bed, presumably to leave. She watched his fingernails bite into the human’s arm. The slave was expensive; so tame and well-bred, he wouldn’t even struggle if she wanted to cut his throat. He had been born here, and had never seen the surface. She had a whole breeding program, but it was so difficult to keep them from getting inbred. She really needed fresh stock. Their lives were so incredibly short, and they could be so fragile.

Sailanshin looked at Ondalia, to Kai, then bent the slave over the bed. He stepped behind the slave and Ondalia cleared her throat. He stilled. She said, “I didn’t say I was done with you. Only that I wanted them gone.”

Sailanshin looked from the slave to Ondalia, then nodded. He left the slave, who obediently did not move. He worked on the next one, and had finished the other three by the time Kai had finished the one. The two shepherded the naked slaves out of the room, passing them off to another slave before they returned to Ondalia.

She left the pair exhausted, a lovely image in her bed. She slipped into a thin robe and closed it to her neck. Barefoot, she padded from the room, following a much grander path than was allotted to the slaves, but nonetheless, the same destination; the stables. Each slave had a small alcove in the stable, separated carefully by race and appearance. Ondalia certainly liked goblin and orcish slaves for fighting, but they were useless at more subtle arts.

Her slavers had last netted her a male centaur she suspected would be quite a prize when he had been tamed. The overseer shuffled over to her, the male’s head down. Ondalia said, “Is my centaur in good health?”

“Yes, we believe so.”

“Good.” She tilted her head slightly. “I want its hooves shod in iron.”

He blanched. “My lady, that isn’t necessary with a centaur—”

She smiled. “I know. But once it is done, it will become necessary. It will increase its dependency on its master, and will decrease its chances if it were to attempt to run.” They walked toward the pen the centaur would be kept. “I want more humans, Valzex.”

“Yes, while my lady was otherwise preoccupied, the last shipment came in. We do have two humans.”  
“Mostly goblin?”

“Yes.”

She frowned. “The humans. Male or female?”

“One of each.”

She smiled. “Excellent. Grown?”

A shrug. “The male is.”

“Any use for breeding?”  
“Short of fresh blood to the bloodline, I don’t think so.”

“Shame. The female?”  
“It’s difficult to say at her age.”

“I see.” She sighed. “I’ll have a look at the male first, then.” He was kept tied until he could be properly broken, gagged with cloth to keep quiet. She looked him over thoroughly, had the gag removed so she could check his teeth, then the gag was replaced. She shoved the threadbare trousers down for further inspection, frowning as she looked him over. She stepped back and Valzex adjusted the clothing. “If he can’t be quickly trained, neuter him. It will take the fight out of him.” She turned and headed down the passage she expected to find the centaur.

It was a large male, dropped into a pit with a grate over it that the creature could not hope to escape on its own. Removing it for the shoeing would be a hassle, but her servants had corralled bugbears before, so she wasn’t over-concerned about their capabilities.

She tilted her head as she considered the centaur’s fate. Her palms twitched. The creature would look handsome pulling a chariot or a coach, but that would take time. Easier if she had a female here, They could breed and the offspring would be broken to it at a young age. Keeping that damned surface route open was costly, though. She needed a new route. A new surface contact would be invaluable too.


	15. Hauntings

It was astonishing how much work there must be in the small section of the library Aestith was tucked in, or so he quietly remarked to one of the library aids, who chuckled uncertainly, and continued dusting the shelves, slightly further from Aestith. Books were a rare commodity in the Underdark--at least books of history and lineage, anyway, but that wasn’t what interested Aestith. He had certainly strolled through that section, surprised to learn how much stock other races put into dead things.

What Aestith had actually wanted to learn about was anatomy. His own, but of course he dare not suggest such a thing. Instead, he tried to find books on elven and human anatomy, as much as it pained him to think of himself as elven. Many drow didn’t, saying that a wood elf and a high elf may, in the end, think of themselves as “elf” before the previous syllable, but a drow elf defined themselves by the former rather than the latter word. But, when the candle had burned to a stub and with a knife to his throat, Aestith  _ might _ admit, quietly, that his ears were pointed and his body was lithe. There, of course, the similarity ended. Might as well claim that he had a liver and a heart too, for all the similarities he had with orcs.

Good luck finding a book on drow anatomy, however, so here he was. Besides--that was exactly his point; if a drow could reproduce with a human and make a half-drow, they had to be similar  _ enough _ to give Aestith some indication of what had happened to him during puberty.

It may have been a worthy goal, to be sure, but so far it had yet to flower. Humans were prudish, and even the medical books were too vague. What if it couldn’t be found in medicine or anatomy? What if he were an anomaly? The only one? He shivered.

Aestith had spent much of what freetime he had on the surface buried in one book or another--he had a penchant for horror stories, and awful romance novels as a fascinating outlook on human affection--but something he had noticed was that the main characters often  _ wanted _ to be unique and the only one like themselves. Aestith didn’t really understand that, as he thought the idea was horrifying. Why would you want to be all alone?

He stared at the sketch on the page. His hand, loosely clasped over the opposite arm, tightened. He had never felt so damned alone. Why had he come here? He hated it here, it was damned shameful to even be on the surface, he was miserable-- _ so why? _

_ Whiny, petulant child, _ he scolded himself. His grip loosened and he shook his head. He was here to study and learn somewhere safe. No one could teach him, so he had to figure it out himself. Being here was just another test, another part of the struggle of his life. A trace of a smile graced his lips.

Something thunked loudly against the carpeted floor. Aestith jumped at the sound, then stilled at the librarian’s sheepish grin. His brow furrowed, and he looked back at the book. He sighed and closed it.

“Can I leave these with you?” Aestith inquired, his voice low.

“Yes,” the librarian yelped.

Aestith smiled pleasantly, amused to see the human shake in his shoes anyway, and turned to leave. The walk back to the guild was a long and miserable one--it was a sunny day. Surfacers called it “nice”, but it hurt, confused his vision, and had given him a handful of abominable freckles that other people insisted were “cute”.

He wasn’t certain if the sun or the rain were worse. He was idly halfway through a pro and con list of each when someone said, “Hey, lady.”

It took Aestith a moment to remember that that was him. He lifted his head, squinting slightly in the harsh light. He recognized that boy from the other day. He stilled. “Did you enjoy the candy?”

The boy nodded earnestly. “Yeah. Uh, do you have any more?”

“I’ll give you another, but say, would you do something for me?”

The kid reached a hand out. “Yeah, sure.”

Aestith smiled gently. “Keep an eye on the guards, would you? Tell me what their daily routes look like, and I’ll have a whole bag of the candies for you about three days from now.”

He grinned. “Where can I find you?”

“Oh, around. The docks. I imagine there aren’t that many drow, are there? This street is good though.” It wasn’t far from the guild, and not on the route to his home.

The boy nodded again. “Sure, I can do that.”

“What’s your name?”

“Adam.”

“Adam. I’m Aestith.” Aestith gave him another peppermint candy. The boy stuffed it into his mouth, wrapper and all. His eyes were bloodshot but bright. “Don’t get into trouble now.”

“‘Course,” the boy said, before he scampered away.

Aestith smiled to himself as he continued his path to the guild hall. He was slightly disappointed that there didn’t seem to be anything available--that he was willing to do anyway. He waited for a while, while the sun crept over the sky, carefully staying indoors until it had passed its vile zenith. He used this time to reflect on what he was doing, to consider his own actions carefully.

Eilora and the half-elf were in the corner having a quiet discussion. When Monkey walked in, they waved him over, and Monkey, upon hearing what they were talking about, loudly called for Aestith. Aestith tilted his head and lifted himself from his seat. He strolled over to them, hands clasped neatly together. “Yes?” he said.

The paladin’s mouth drew into a tight line. “Sylvia came by this morning. I think she’s been up all night. She had been to nearly every alchemist in town, and finally found a recipe for what they  _ claim _ will cure lycanthropy.” She presented a stained slip of parchment.

Aestith set her with a bleak stare. “That hardly sounds profitable for us.”

Monkey seemed relieved. “Right?”

The drow reached for the parchment. He briefly skimmed the ingredients. “Some of these are poisons. They’re illegal in Waterdeep, if I recall. The rest are fairly common.” 

“Maybe in Neverwinter?” Monkey said.

His eyes narrowed in thought. “Or find a smuggler, perhaps.” He sighed, handing her back the list. “But overall, this is a waste of time. We delivered the child.”

“But the kid could kill people!” she hissed. “And this is partially our fault.”

Aestith’s lips curled, offended. “Our fault? Did  _ we _ lure the child into the sewers and cage them? Did  _ we _ inflict him with lycanthropy? I think not.”

Eilora pinched the bridge of her nose. “I mean, no, it’s not our fault that Zack has lycanthropy. And we did do our part of the job. But I mean, it’s just a little kid, and if we don’t do this, the kid is going to infect other people. It could kill Sylvia.”

Aestith’s brow creased in puzzlement. “Should we slay the child, then?”  
“No!” Eilora and the half-elf cried together. Douglas, at his desk, frowned at the group. Eilora smiled and waved. He nodded dimly, and promptly busied himself in his paperwork.

The half-elf said, in a low voice, “No. I think we should try to cure the kid.”

“With illegal substances?” Aestith said, a smirk playing about his lips.

She hesitated. Monkey quickly interjected, “Look. There’s no money in it for us. Fact of the matter, some of this stuff is really expensive, and we all know we’re not getting that coin back.”

The half-elf floundered for a moment. She glanced hopefully at Eilora, who had suddenly found her shoes to be very interesting. Her shoulders sagged. “Well… Could we at least try to gather some of the other ingredients?” She offered the list.

Aestith sighed. “I have a bit of this. You can have it.” He raised an eyebrow. “If you stop bothering me about this.”

She glowered. “Fine.” The paladin stomped away. Eilora hesitated, and followed her out. Monkey went into the basement, probably after more of that awful grog. 

Aestith meandered to his stolen apartment. The warehouse was abandoned at all hours. Sometimes, Aestith had to run off a street urchin or two, but it was eternally empty otherwise.

He picked over his sparse alchemy table and selected the few ingredients he had on hand, collecting it in small bags. As he was stowing the bags, a thought occurred to him. He tore a sheaf of paper, just large enough to write a small note. The ink was cheap and tended to blotch no matter how carefully he wrote. His sisters had taught him writing, and his penmanship was neat and precise no matter the language. If he had ever written illegibly, he was punished for it. They had assumed that if he wrote poorly, it was because he wasn’t trying, and they had always been in a foul mood because of the light necessary to see the writing. You can’t see a book in infrared.

When it dried, he slipped the small note into a pocket. On the route back to the guild, he looked for Adam, not truly expecting to find him, but needing to nonetheless. The kid was probably high out of his mind in a gutter somewhere. Aestith cursed.

He was about to give up and go to the guild hall, when he saw another drow. He knew the man for a drow immediately, despite everything the other had done to disguise it. Ordinarily, such attempts would be laughable, but this drow was albino. The effect was that he appeared remarkably like a moon elf. However, he was a finger taller than Aestith and was slight of build; not at all like a moon elf. When the elf turned his head, Aestith’s fingers curled in irritation. The drow had, for some indiscernible reason, allowed someone to tattoo him like a damned moon elf too. A tattoo of dark purple and blue, speckled with white stars Aestith quickly realized were unmarked parts of his bone-white skin, swept from the corner of his right eye, along the cheekbone, and teased about the jawline. It stretched down his neck and disappeared into the collar of his leathers. It was some stylized version of the night sky that Aestith’s eyes could only see as patches of cold darkness and white, blinding lights.

Aestith wanted to slap him, scream and berate him for allowing such a thing to happen, for forsaking the drow so completely that he would abandon his own people to practically  _ become _ a moon elf.

Aestith strode toward the drow. It was a busy market day, and the path was not clear. Aestith was small, and had to walk carefully, quickly, trying not to lose the pale drow, but everyone around him were so much taller. The sun glared and stung. Watching something white should not have been so difficult. Humans were drab, all browns, wheat, and peach. The other shades and bodies pressed close together, too tall for someone merely 5’ to see over. Aestith reached the place he had seen the drow.

His fingers clenched. The other was gone.

He cast about desperately, but he was short, and his quarry was not much taller. Where could he have gone?

Aestith sighed. Maybe he would see him again, and have another chance. He had to know why he would do such a thing. Aestith sincerely hoped it was a disguise. Or, if the tattoos were real, a better element of a disguise. If it wasn’t, Aestith had to know what could make someone do that. What would make someone disregard their entire culture and people? It made him sick to even consider it.

If the other had truly forsaken even being a drow, and refused to be converted, Aestith had to kill him.

**

Aestith gave the note to Adam to deliver, in exchange for more candy. To Wiltorin, he gave the ingredients he was willing to give. As the full moon drew nearer, she pushed for them to find somewhere to hire on as guards going to Neverwinter. Aestith was steadfast in refusing to go. Brass Monkey was equally reluctant, and Eilora seemed to regard it as an expensive and foolish errand.

The paladin left the next morning, and later that afternoon, just when Brass Monkey was coming down the stairs, Lady Sylvia burst into the room. Tears marked her face and her eyes were red. “They took him!” she wailed.

Aestith cringed.

Monkey went to her. “Took who?”

She clung to him. “Zack! They took my baby!”

“Who took your baby?” he cooed.

Eilora hurried toward them. Aestith rolled his eyes. Sylvia moaned, “They took him away!”

Monkey glanced back at Douglas. “Let’s get you some fresh air. Come on. Have a drink too.” He offered her a flask. She grasped it and allowed him to lead her back out the door, away from Douglas. Aestith watched out the window, listening to the tone of voices, the body language between the three.

Of course, Aestith already knew what Sylvia was crying about; the guards had taken her child. It was what happened when someone was stricken with lycanthropy. The child had been a danger, and ordinarily, Aestith would have no huge compunctions about such things, but he lived too near where the infected child was. That it caused emotional distress to Sylvia and Zack were merely amusing side effects. The woman could always have another child--Monkey seemed willing enough to assist--and Zack would be put down before he could be a menace. There weren’t really any downsides.

Monkey seemed to have calmed her down somewhat with Eilora’s help, and they shooed her away. Monkey dropped down into the chair opposite Aestith. “What was that on about?” the drow inquired.

The human rotated his neck until it cracked. In a low voice, he answered, “Guard took Zack.”

“Hm,” Aestith grunted.

“Should… we help her?” Eilora said.

“And do what, pray tell?” Aestith said blandly. He chuckled. “Fight our way through all the guards in the prison to get to him, and fight our way out again?”

She scowled, but could offer little to retort. The door creaked open. Monkey shot a glance at it. By his expression, he had half-expected Sylvia again. He relaxed upon seeing the bronze dragonborn. Aestith braced himself; Deekin was annoying.

Deekin boomed, “Hello! What’s everybody doing? Why so glum?”  
Eilora began to answer, but Aestith said, “Did you notice any new jobs posted?”  
A tiefling had clambered down the stairs and peered at the bulletin board. “Anyone going to do this one at the farm?” he called over his shoulder.

“What one?” Monkey said.

The tiefling plucked it from the board and plopped it down on the table. “This one.”

They looked over it briefly.

“An unknown reward,” Aestith said darkly.

“A chest full of magic items,” Deekin reinterpreted.

Eilora frowned. “But it says it’s haunted.”

Monkey pointed at Aestith. “Yeah, but we have a cleric.” He pointed at the tiefling. “And you’re a… paladin?”

The tiefling nodded assent. “Yep.”

“They allow tiefling paladins?”

Sage-green eyes narrowed. “What are you trying to say?”

They took the job with minimal fuss--it was something to do after all, and no one wanted to be around when Sylvia came crawling back beseeching further assistance. The tiefling had joined the guild only the night before, and introduced himself as Kairon. His presence was preferable to the half-elf, but only just so.

The walk out to the farm was long and unpleasant--for Aestith anyway. Eilora enjoyed being outside the city, occasionally commenting that she missed the countryside. Aestith bit back a remark that perhaps she should simply stay out here. Monkey seemed a bit preoccupied and lost in thought, but Deekin was chatty as ever and Kairon had not yet learned enough not to provoke him, because Deekin broke out into song with the barest hint of an audience.

Aestith tried to ignore the cacophony that was Deekin’s lute. It wasn’t that Deekin was bad at singing. It wasn’t that Deekin composed insane, impromptu ballads revolving around jokes, nor was it even his playing. It made the deep void where he missed Amalette ache all the harder. He missed Amalette singing, the sound of her voice, the way she stepped and walked. He missed her fingers plucking on the strings of a harp.

Noise was a commodity in the Underdark. You wanted to keep quiet because noise traveled and echoed. If you made it noise, it was because you were bold. Amalette made noise.

Noise on the surface traveled, but it didn’t bounce around and echo. So many things made noise that a single voice could easily become lost. He missed the simple acoustics of a cave.

They turned down a fork and a series of wagon-rutted roads led them to a field of wheat covered in a cottony red fungus.

Monkey peered at it. “Anyone ever seen this?”

Aestith walked down the center of the lane, and did not poke at the substance. Curiosity was all well and good and you can learn a great many things by being naturally curious--though one of those things one might learn is death. Aestith could observe from where he was.

The others spent some time poking at it, then they collectively moved on. The wheat bent in a gentle breeze. Tufts of red fungus floated in the air. It stuck to one’s clothing, and it hadn’t mattered what precautions Aestith had taken previously, as he and everyone else were soon covered in it.

They got away from the field and were able to brush themselves off to some degree. A farmhouse sat in the center of the fields. A man sat on the porch, his skin dark with sunburn and a bit of a squint to his eyes. Monkey and Deekin did much of the talking. The man was the owner of the farm, who had contacted the guild originally. The substance had shown up a few days ago, and their harvest would be ruined if they couldn’t figure out what it was. Apparently, the farmer was afraid of the liability if he were to sell it anyway, even if it did seem to dissipate overnight only to be back again by morning.

“So why are we here and not a botanist?” Aestith interjected.

The farmer looked at Aestith. “Well, y’see. Around the same time as the blight showed up, we’ve had a bit of a haunting. Candles snuffing out, doors openin’ and closin’, strange sounds, all sorts.”

Aestith frowned, then whispered a few clipped words. With a cantrip, he was able to reproduce each of the things the man had named. “You see, it could just as easily be a rather simple spell. Not necessarily a haunting.”

The man shrugged. “That’s why I contacted the guild.”

The door flew open. A frazzled woman in a pink linen dress pointed at Aestith and Kairon. “Demon!” she declared.

The two glanced at one another, and back at her. “Ah…” Aestith stammered.

“Demon!” she bellowed again. “Back! Back into hell with ye!” Aestith took a step from Kairon, but she pointed at him as he moved. “Ye are banished! Demon!”

Kairon sighed and turned to the farmer. “Has she always been like this?”

The man shrugged. “Well…”

“Demon!”

“Can you shut her up?” Aestith demanded.

“Yessum,” the farmer replied before he ushered his wife inside. Monkey followed him in and Aestith trailed behind him.

When the farmer had convinced his wife to stay upstairs, he came down again. Monkey asked a few pointed questions about any previous owners. The farmer shrugged and opened a small safe to find the deed, which he showed Monkey.

Monkey pretended to scan the deed, but Aestith saw the way his eyes flicked toward the open safe. There wasn’t much in it. Brass Monkey handed the deed back to the farmer. “We’ll have a look around,” he decided.

Aestith nodded. There hadn’t been a huge turnover of previous landowners, and each of the previous ones listed in the paperwork seemed to imply that they had had it a good long time. No reason to suspect much.

The others looked over the surrounding area. After the usual bickering, they wandered back out into the fields again. Monkey collected some of the fungus and when Eilora had a chance to study it more thoroughly, she identified it as bloodmoss.

“Odd to find it here though,” she said. “Did you find out anything else about it?”

Aestith said, “The farmer said that the bloodmoss seems to dissipate at night.”

“So why can’t they just do the harvest at night, then?” Kairon said with a roll of his eyes.

“Because they’re human and can’t see,” Deekin suggested.

Kairon stalked around the group. “Well. They’re concerned about the bloodmoss. The farmer said it was spreading, right?” An assenting nod from the others. “So why don’t we just do controlled burnings?”

EIlora crossed her arms. “Why is your solution to everything to set it on fire?”

Monkey held up a hand. “Let’s hold that thought.”

Another round of bickering ensued. Aestith rubbed his temples to soothe his growing head pain. “Can we at least move this argument into the shade? The sun is giving me a headache.”

Slowly, they moved back toward the farmhouse, while continuing to bicker. “--Sure, there doesn’t seem to be anything here now, but maybe come nightfall…”

“--And we’ll have wasted a whole day…”

It only went around and around. “Oi, what’s that?” Kairon said, pointing.

A series of wagons had trundled down the path. The people in the wagons wore black uniforms.

Cakecake growled and Eilora bent to give him a reassuring pat. “Who are they?”

Two of the black-clad men were talking with the farmer. The two men stood with their backs straight and broad shoulders squared. The sunlight glinted off the pommel of a polished black-handled sword. Cloaks with stitched mimicking a feathers scarcely concealed crossbows on their backs. The farmer, no small man himself, was dwarfed by them. His shoulders hunched and his neck bowed. Whatever they had said, the man was cowed.

Aestith’s fingers twitched toward his crossbow, but he dropped his hand away as the men turned. Their polished breastplates showed the enameled, styled body of a raven.

The five of them stilled with distaste. “The Ravens,” Aestith said sourly.

“What are  _ they _ doing here?” Kairon sniffed.

Monkey strode right up to them. Aestith watched the interaction from afar with bereft amusement. Monkey left quickly, somehow more irritated. Aestith strode past him and spoke briefly with the farmer, discovering that the Ravens had shown up of their own accord. When Aestith looked up again, he found that the Ravens were harvesting the farmer’s wheat, but not as an act of charity.

Aestith said, “Are they at least paying you for this?”

The farmer shrugged weakly. “I can’t do anything with it anyway.”

The drow rolled his eyes, trying to let the disgust brush off of him. The Ravens bundled the wheat and loaded it into the wagons. Cutting out the infected parts was a way to fix it too, Aestith supposed. And kept it from spreading. But then, of course, that was no help to the farmer and thus no help to the problem of Aestith not getting paid.

The Guild 538 members moved away from the distraught farmer. They bickered and debated a bit, expressed opinions. They looked around the farmstead, and Kairon seemed to think there was something off about the barn, but couldn’t quite place what except that the tool rack had a missing tool. There was nothing they could do except to wait for nightfall. They set up camp in the barn. Kairon patrolled outside. Deekin and Eilora took a nap in the hayloft. An hour ago, the Ravens had left, and Monkey had sent his newfound pet rat, Mickey, to keep an eye on them. Aestith sat on the ladder, watching Monkey perform failed experiments with a bucket of water.

Monkey had tried mixing the bloodmoss with water in a bucket or diluting it with some fluid he had. Nothing seemed to be causing any effect. The barn air was stifling, so Aestith opened the door and slid out into the moonlight. He tried to ignore the sky, and looked at the wheat.

He hadn’t really believed the farmer when the man had claimed that the bloodmoss only settled during the day and had seemed to dissipate at night, but the wheat seemed free of it now. When Aestith looked up, however, he saw a reddish cloud of the stuff in the air.

It couldn’t just be the night; the bloodmoss in the barn had done no such thing.

Aestith wandered back to the barn, considered, then threw the door open wide. The moonlight spilled across the barn floor. The wet bloodmoss in the bucket grew fine and floated, all but disappearing in the air.

“What—” Monkey said, then he stilled. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

He frowned, pacing in a circle. “Something… Hey, Eilora. Get Cakecake down here.”

After some grumbling, the nap was ended and they climbed down the ladder. Cakecake sniffed around, seemed interested in some hay bales, but moved on from them.

Kairon wandered in behind Aestith. “So all that bloodmoss is--what are you guys doing?”

“Shh--do you hear anything?” Monkey said.

The tiefling’s tail flicked. “No.” He tilted his head and his eyes glazed for a moment, then he looked down. “But there is definitely something demonic below the barn.”

Aestith’s lips curled in distaste. “Perhaps we should get the farmers to dig a hole then.”

“I’m sure we can find some way down…” Eilora said.

The drow crossed his arms, but he sensed nothing out of the ordinary, and didn’t see much point in investigating piles of hay, and no one else seemed to be having much luck either.

Kairon grabbed a shovel. Aestith tilted his head. “Can’t Cakecake track?”

“If he knows what to look for.”

“Something like Kairon?”

“Hey!”

Eilora made an attempt, but Cakecake just kept looking back at Kairon. She shrugged helplessly. Aestith said, “What about the bloodmoss?”

She put up a bit of a fuss about that, but after another thorough search of the farm, ending back at the barn, she gave in and they let Cakecake sniff some of the bloodmoss previously stuffed into a bag. Cakecake’s pupils dilated. The badger went deathly still for a long moment, then it bounded to the hay bales. It made grunting, snuffling noises, then disappeared behind them. Eilora and Monkey shoved a hay bale aside, revealing a small pit. Cakecake seemed proud of himself.

They found a rope and tied it to a post before they dropped it down. Aestith was the first down the hole, then the others. Cakecake had to be lowered down. The tunnel ferreted them in only one direction. A small, warm thing appeared briefly in front of them. Aestith shot at it and it disappeared. The tunnel opened to a modest, earthy chamber. An imp stood on the floor of the room. It gave a hopeful smile.

“This our place,” it said.

Aestith stared blankly at it, reaching again for the crossbow. Monkey said, “No. This human place.”

“Ours. Big one say ours.”

“Who is ‘big one’?” Aestith said.

“I no think you want to meet him.”

Aestith pointed the crossbow at him. “Maybe I do.”

It shook its head. “No. I no think so.” A pair of ruby-colored gauntlets appeared in its tiny hands. “I give shiny gauntlets? You go away?”

“Eat it,” Monkey said, and shot. The imp vanished. Aestith darted forward and swiped the gauntlets. He looked around the room, but there didn’t seem to be any traps. Aestith holstered the crossbow to inspect the gauntlets. The steel had a lovely red tint to it, with large rubies on the back of the hand. The rubies seemed to glow with some internal fire.

“What do you suppose—” Aestith looked up. The others were moving past the chamber, down the other tunnel. He stuffed the gauntlets into his pack and fell in line.

Monkey drove a piton into the earth with a hammer, then another rope around it. He dropped the rope down a short drop to another chamber. Kairon snorted at the meager 10 foot drop and jumped down. Aestith rolled his eyes. Eilora passed Cakecake to him.

The badger squealed suddenly. Kairon jumped. A scythe swung toward him, slicing along Kairon’s arm. He dropped Cakecake and the badger careened after a nearby imp.

Eilora jumped in alarm and rushed after Cakecake. Deekin bellowed encouragement to everyone. Monkey poised to shoot. Aestith held his shield up, the crossbow in the other hand. 

The scythe wasn’t wielded by anything Aestith could see or properly understand; it seemed to swing of its own accord. Kairon deflected blows with his shield, but he couldn’t hold it off forever. Cakecake’s jaws clamped around an imp that it shook like a clogged salt shaker. Eilora’s arrow glanced off the scythe’s blade.

Kairon yelled, “Don’t do that! You’ll hit me!”

Monkey shot another imp. Aestith aimed at the same one when it didn’t go down. The scythe cut suddenly low, deft for something so large, and swept Kairon’s legs. The tiefling flailed, reached out a hand, and grabbed the scythe as if automatically. The paladin went very still and his sword fell from his hand. He grabbed the scythe, fingers wrapped tightly around it.

“Damn it, Kairon!” Aestith yelled.

The tiefling blinked and seemed to shake. He gritted his teeth, a firm grip on the blade. The blade, suddenly caught, fought against him. “Hit it!” he yelled.

Eilora notched an arrow. “You just said—”

“I know what I said!”

Monkey leapt defly down, swapping the shortbow for a sword. He swung at the scythe, chipping off bits of its leather-wrapped handle. The scythe bucked and jerked in Kairon’s grip.

Imps flung fire, pelting Cakecake. Eilora turned to defend her pet. Deekin shimmied down the rope. Aestith cursed and followed suit, chanting a spell as he went. He flung out a hand, pointing at the scythe. Nothing happened. His stomach twisted. Why? What had he done?

He tried another spell, a simpler cantrip, equally fruitless. The blood drained from his face. Had he been wrong? Had he displeased Lolth somehow? Had he failed her? Displeased her? He was on the surface, sure, and that was disgraceful perhaps, but it had never impeded him before. Why now?

He almost didn’t care when the imps were upon him, snickering and assaulting him with flames. If Lolth was displeased with him, nothing else mattered. Nothing at all. He shouldered his shield to defend against an attack. An imp cackled. He spun at another, but they seemed to anticipate his every movement. What had he done?

He thought of all the things he had done since the sacrifice. Or was it the sacrifice? Had it been wrong somehow?  _ Of course it was wrong--I don’t know the proper way! Show me! _

He thought of the farmer, of his wife in the house.

The scythe cleaved into his side and he fell. He rolled and his vision faded. He must have only been out for a few seconds, because he blinked awake to a glass bottle at his lips, being force-fed something that tasted like a healing potion, and smelled like Monkey, which was a combination of bad liquor and infrequent bathing. Aestith grabbed the bottle from the other’s hand and finished it, then dropped it to the side.

“Nice of you to join us,” Monkey mused.

Aestith touched his side, weaving a spell of healing into the touch. “Fuck you.” Aestith found his fallen rapier, and swung toward an imp. It pierced the imp’s flesh and the creature fell, sliding off the thin blade. Kairon raised the scythe upwards and slammed it viciously down into the ground. Sweat beaded over his crimson skin.

The blade snapped. The imps gave a little shriek and what remained of them vanished. Kairon, panting, let go of the scythe. It fell over.

“The farmer was missing a tool, right?” Deekin said.

The scythe blade glistened in the dim glow from Monkey’s lantern. Broken fragments of the blade littered the hastily dug tunnel.

Aestith watched the light reflect off the blade, the way it seemed to shimmer as the human moved about the area. Kairon glanced at Aestith. “Hey. Drow.”

The cleric’s head lifted. “Hm?”

Kairon tilted his head. “Next time, when a spell doesn’t work, how about just jumping into the melee, huh?”

Aestith blinked. “What?” He hesitated. “Yes, of course.”

The tiefling grunted and stalked past him. How could a paladin be so blase about a cleric’s spells fizzling out? Aestith’s stomach churned. What did it mean when a cleric’s spells were ineffective? Was Lolth displeased with him?

His brow creased in thought as he turned with the rest of the party. Deekin climbed up first and they hoisted Cakecake up to him. Aestith was no use there, and hung back, watching.  _ Am I of use anywhere? _

The old scars on his arm ached and his fingers twitched with a familiar itch. He wanted to cut. Why did he want to do that?

The despair. It was the only way he knew to handle despair. His eyebrows knitted together in concentration. Despair.

He had gotten over it last time because of Lolth. What was the lesson to be learned here?

He relaxed, eyes closed slightly longer than a blink and he almost laughed. The lesson was obvious, and he had almost despaired and thrown a tantrum like a child.  _ I am a child, _ he reminded himself. Barely 42. He had nearly sixty years before he was even a proper adult. How quickly he had decided that Lolth was displeased with him! How distressingly easy it had been to fall into despair. That had been the true test, not these failed spells. No matter how good you were at something, how talented, you failed once in a while and a god had nothing at all to do with it.

The young drow shivered. And he had nearly given in to his own despair and insecurities, believing so quickly that he had displeased Lolth. As if that were the only reason a spell might fail! Absurd. He had done nothing to fall out of the Spider Queen’s favor, had he? No.

He touched his chest before he climbed up the rope, whispering a simple cantrip to grant assistance. It worked perfectly, and he felt at ease. Everything was exactly as it should be. He had to remember that he wasn’t only a cleric. He had to remember that he was himself too, and that while he would never excel at melee or distance combat, it was always an option. His spells weren’t all there was to him.

***

The farmers needed to confirm that the bloodmoss was truly gone, and said that they would send the items to the guild, so they walked back to town in the morning. Deekin sang a bawdy song of their conquests. Aestith wondered what it would be like to be deaf.

“So fuck the Ravens,” Monkey chirruped.

This was met with a chorus of agreement from everyone else, including Aestith. Aestith said, “Does anyone else want to do something to that bloodmoss they took?”

“Set it on fire?” Kairon said.

“Always an option. I was going to suggest we steal it.”

Monkey brightened. “Exactly. When Mickey gets back, he’ll tell us where the wagons went.”

“Who’s Mickey?” Eilora wondered.

“My rat.”  
“When did that happen?” Deekin said.

Monkey rolled his eyes. “Can we all keep up for a moment? So when Mickey gets back, we’ll find where it’s been stored. What do we want to do?”

They brainstormed their options, argued good-naturedly, and developed a plan.

Mickey did indeed come back to Monkey late that evening. It told the human about the warehouse. Unfortunately, it was still a rat and it had no idea where the warehouse might be, so the guild had to take to the streets to find out. Aestith asked Adam about it when he saw him, but Adam had been watching the guards and hadn’t noticed. Eilora took Cakecake to sniff out the bloodmoss, but there were too many other tracks and the badger became confused. They were about to abandon the entire idea, but Deekin came back with a lead--a warehouse in the Castle Ward. The others groaned; each of them stood out in that district.

Aestith propped his elbow on the table, dropping his chin into his palm. “I think Brass Monkey could clean up pretty well.”

With minimal complaint, Brass Monkey found a tailor in the morning and came out in some rather fine attire. Kairon wolf-whistled. “Lookin’ good, Monkey!” he called. 

Monkey exaggerated the swagger on his hips. The pirate grinned. “Phase One. Complete.” Phase Two involved getting into the warehouse. Going at night was ultimately ruled more suspicious, given their mismatched band, so they went that afternoon. Eilora and Deekin created a distraction on a street corner nearby with a dancing badger. Aestith and Kairon stood on the corner in a stony silence. Their mere presence drew attention. Monkey came up the street alone. Or, he should have been alone. An aging gentleman with a bejeweled cane walked along beside him. Monkey held an expression of strained tolerance on his face. The man chatted amiably. Aestith’s eyebrow hoisted above one eye.

“Oh, dear,” he mused. Monkey slowed as they walked near the warehouse, but not dramatically. They seemed to come to a natural halt as they spoke. The man seemed deep in his monologue and Monkey shifted uncomfortably, then finally said something that seemed to offend the other. The man huffed and stomped away. Monkey shot Aestith an accusatory look, then ducked into the alley beside the warehouse.

Aestith’s fingers drummed on the side of his leg. Eilora and Deekin had a hat that people occasionally tossed coppers into. Minutes ticked by. Aestith whispered, “He’s taking too long.”

“Give him more time.”

Aestith sighed, trying not to pace. A guard was watching them. His lips twisted in irritation. He stretched and tilted his head in the guard’s direction. “Don’t look now.”

Kairon frowned. “Typical.”

Predictably, the guard asked them what they were doing. Aestith remained silent and let Kairon do the talking. “We’re just waiting for a friend,” Kairon said pleasantly.

The guard looked from the drow to the tiefling. “You know there’s a strict no loitering policy in place, right?”

“Well, we aren’t in front of a store.”

This exchange went back and forth for a time, Kairon pretending to be blatantly ignorant of what the guard was driving at, until the guard finally addressed Aestith, perhaps in the hopes of making more headway. “We have to keep traffic moving. Can’t be standing around.”

Aestith smiled pleasantly. “Oh, we won’t be long, and we don’t seem to be in anyone’s way.” Monkey slipped back from the warehouse alley. Aestith’s grey eyes flicked back to the guard. “You work too hard. Always suspicious, aren’t we?” Aestith walked past Kairon. Kairon turned his head, perhaps saw Monkey, and followed after. The guard breathed in relief.

Aestith and Kairon fell in with the others. They moved away from the corner and down another street before they stopped to have a hushed conversation. Monkey relayed, as briefly as possible, that the warehouse was empty.

“They moved it already?” Eilora said, shoulders slumped.

“I think so.”

“Shit,” Kairon muttered. They discussed briefly what to do, then decided that they would have to ask around again. To accomplish this, they split up and said they would meet again at the guildhall.

Monkey was able to talk to the people in the area with relative ease. Deekin hit up the local taverns. Aestith wouldn’t expect anyone to tell him anything even if they knew, so he went to the urchins and vagabonds.

A halfling hissed, “Drow.”

Aestith stilled and looked down the alley. The halfling gestured and Aestith followed him into the alley. The halfling said, “You’re looking for the bloodmoss, right?”

“Yes.”

The halfling nodded. “Talk to the Piece.” He gave Aestith directions to a bar.

Aestith nodded once, thanked the halfling, and stepped away. He made his way to the bar, down at the docks. It was a musty, grimy place, full of dark corners and grease. Aestith sat at the bar, ordered an ale, and watched the patrons. It was fascinating how there were so many poorly lit areas of the pub, and how so many of them gravitated toward the darkest recesses, then attempted to play cards in the dark. Many of them sported a tattoo of a puzzle piece on their arm.

The bartender, his sleeves rolled to his elbows as he scrubbed glasses, also had a faded tattoo of a puzzle piece. Aestith sipped the ale and said, “Your tattoo. Where did you get it?”

He shrugged. “End of a needle.”

Aestith’s lips pulled into a smile. “Where might one get a tattoo like that?”

The barkeep looked up. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Aestith left his ale mostly untouched and followed the barkeep around the bar. The man knocked on a door, which opened, then knocked on a trap door. Someone below opened that as well and the barkeep gestured. Aestith strolled down the steps, past the doorman, and down a hall. The basement was dimly lit. A table dominated the room. There were stacks of maps, crates and boxes pushed to corners. A human male looked Aestith up and down, and waved him over. They discussed the bloodmoss briefly, and the man said that the Piece had been after it themselves, and more than willing to take outside help.

Aestith readily agreed when the man said that they knew where the bloodmoss had ended up. Aestith and he made a quick plan of action, a date, and Aestith left for the guildhall.

The others had not been so successful, and were already discussing taking a different job when he arrived. Aestith grinned at them. “I found the bloodmoss. Someone purchased it and moved it to the third story of an inn in the nicer part of town.” He paused. “I have some… associates who are looking to steal it. For their help, they want half the bloodmoss.”

“Deal,” Monkey said. The others agreed; this was mostly to spite the Ravens, after all, even if the rival guild had already sold it. During the day, Aestith took the gauntlets to a blacksmith to have them fitted to him. He probably paid more than this job was worth--drow incurred hazard fees for some reason--but they fit by evening.

They waited for the Piece across from the inn, and so as to be slightly less conspicuous, they sat on the outdoor patio of a tavern. Deekin played the lute at all passersby, whether they liked it or not. Monkey left the inn from the frontdoor, waved to the doorman, and wandered across the street.

“How are we getting to the third floor?” Kairon said, eyeing the inn.

Monkey dropped down into the chair.. “I can make it.” 

“There’s no reason all of us need to go, right?” Aestith inquired serenely. “If a couple of us hang back, it would act as backup in case something goes wrong.”

Eilora ruffled Cakecake’s ears. “Cakecake can’t make it up there climbing.” She frowned at the windows.

Monkey said, “So the guy rented out the entire floor. We’re probably going to have to search every room.”

The table let out a collective groan. “Right. How are we getting all of us up there?” Eilora wondered.

Aestith rolled his eyes. “The real problem is myself and Kairon. Monkey and Eilora could just rent rooms on the fourth floor and walk up, or disguise yourselves as the help, right?” He shrugged. “Then you just lower a rope down the alley for Kairon and myself.” His eyes flicked toward Deekin and Cakecake. “And them of course.”

“That seems convoluted. Let’s just climb up there,” Monkey said.

They had a whispered, hasty debate, and Aestith raised his glass in a particular direction. “There they are.”

A member of the Piece walked up to their table. “Are you ready?”

Monkey rose. “Yep. We climbing in?”

“That was the plan.”

Aestith pinched the bridge of his nose.  _ Why were all surfacers so intent on doing things the stupidest, most visible way _ ? He dropped his hand to his lap. “I’m afraid stealth and climbing are not my strong suit. I will watch for guards.”

“Same,” Kairon said with a shrug.

The Piece nodded. Monkey eagerly followed them, Eilora with less enthusiasm. Aestith waited a long moment, then followed them. He watched Monkey scamper up the walls and ledges like, well, a monkey. The human shimmied a window open then slid inside. A moment later, a rope dropped down. Eilora tested it once, then scaled up the rope. The Piece followed suit. Aestith watched the alley, and listened. All was silent for several minutes. He held his breath as a couple walked by the alley, but they were too enamored with one another to notice much else. Aestith hoped to never be so oblivious.

A sack was dropped from the window. A Piece member caught it. The other two Pieces snaked down the rope, nodded to Aestith, and hurried down the alley the other side. Monkey and Eilora came down with a similar sack. Eilora seemed disturbed.

“Find anything interesting?” Aestith inquired.

“A dead cat,” Monkey blurted.

Eilora shivered. “A  _ mostly _ dead cat. Tortured and nailed to the floor… There were all these candles and blood…”

“Anyway, we thought…” Monkey’s voice trailed off at Aestith’s expression.

“I know nothing of the occult, and little enough of sorcery,” Aestith said blandly. “I’m a cleric.”

“Yes, but…”

Aestith sneered and turned on his heel. Monkey sighed, and shimmied back up the rope to shut the window. He scaled down the wall again by clinging to the masonry, the rope looped around a shoulder. They gave the bloodmoss to Aestith, and despite what Aestith had said, he knew enough about the sorts of things the pair had described to commission a lead-lined box he used to store the bloodmoss in. He mixed a bit of the bloodmoss with the peppermint candies he made, unique to only one batch as he had little desire to squander a rare resource.

The farmers had a trunk of items delivered to the guild by the time they returned. Aestith watched everyone else divide it, but had no interest in much of it. Even so, he had the gauntlets, which he considered to be superior anyway. Many of the items they communally agreed were for everyone who had gone on that mission, so made a community chest of sorts in the basement with it.

Aestith never mentioned the Piece to the rest of the guild, seeing little reason to do so, but he kept the contact in mind in case they might be useful. The guild, he learned when he had an evening down at their tavern, were mostly keen on smuggling. He wondered how difficult it would be to smuggle things in and out of the Underdark. There was a quick way to profit. Or death.

Aestith checked in with the guild every other day or so as he waited for a new job to be posted. When he came in in the afternoon, Deekin was standing in the hall, a small human protege beside him.

“Aestith!” he boomed. Aestith cringed. The boy’s eyes widened in a mixture of awe and terror at Aestith. Deekin grinned. A dragonborn’s grin was mostly teeth. “Meet Gulian. He’s my new squire.”

Aestith looked over the child. The boy was scrawny, but his leathers fit properly, as if they were made for him, and he held a light sword, made for a boy rather than a man, with a small buckler. The boy tugged at the leather armor as if he would prefer to be in silks. “How did you manage to squire a noble?”

As if to answer Aestith’s question, the boy tugged on Deekin’s sleeve. “It’s too hot,” the boy whined. Even if he hadn’t been whining, his voice would be high and nasally. “I wanna go home. Why is a drow here? Is she going to kill us? I wanna go home. This place smells bad.”

“I see,” Aestith said with a slight twitch to one eye.

Monkey waved a stained paper notice above his head. “Who wants to take the brewery job?”

Aestith snatched it from his hand and looked over the details. The others discussed their options, and settled on the haunted brewery. Aestith was tired of hauntings. Probably another demon.

On the way to the brewery, Monkey commented that he couldn’t find Sylvia. Eilora frowned in concern. “Maybe she just wasn’t at home?” she offered.

Monkey shook his head. “Nah. Checked at the tavern too and no one has seen her.”

“That’s… troubling,” Deekin drawled.

“Who’s Sylvia? Why do we have to walk? Can’t we take a carriage? My feet hurt. Everything here smells like fish.” The boy continued to complain for several minutes before Aestith saw a tack shop, and told the others he would catch them up. He purchased a six foot whip and made his way to the brewery; Aestith really only knew one way to deal with problematic children. He had been raised with such aids, and saw little wrong with it. Granted, he knew that drow were quite different from other races, and maybe other races may not require the threat of pain to keep a child from misbehaving. Even human children would tear the wings off of flies, and drow children often learned the basics of hunting and fighting from a young age, so really, it was wise to make them learn quickly what would happen if they acted out.

When he arrived, they were making some inquiries of the dwarven owner, Doudgrek Burlybrew, and inspecting the grounds. Monkey randomly attacked Gullian, to make sure that he was “always ready”. Aestith almost approved of this approach, except it was actually quite comical to witness.

Aestith assumed that it would be demons again, under the brewery somehow. He wasn’t wrong, much to his own dismay. Monkey had found a spot under a keg that was far warmer than it should be, and well past nightfall, almost burning to the touch. They moved the keg and checked the stone floor, but it seemed intact.

“We’re going to have to dig it up,” Kairon sighed.

“I’m tired,” Gullian whined.

“Does anyone have a shovel or a pickaxe?” Deekin inquired.

Aestith gestured back toward the common room. “I’m sure that the dwarf does,” Aestith said.

Eilora’s freckled nose wrinkled. “Is that racist?”

“It’s Aestith, so probably,” Kairon muttered without the slightest bit of self-reflection; he was flagrantly racist toward dwarves, gnomes, and halflings and would articulate passionately on how “short races cannot be trusted”.

Aestith rolled his eyes. Most of the digging was done by Kairon and Monkey in shifts. While Kairon was getting a drink, Gullian continued to whine and complain.

“We should let the child go to bed,” Eilora said quietly. “He’s grouchy.”

“I’m not grouchy and I’m not going to bed! I wanna stay up!” Gullian yelled, then continued to complain about the hot, itchiness of his leather, and how the sword was too heavy.

Aestith’s fingers twitched toward the whip. Kairon slammed his cup down on the table and marched over to Gullian. The tiefling grabbed the noble brat by the lapels and hoisted him off of his feet. Gullian’s brown eyes flared with terror. “Be quiet or I will give you a reason to cry.”

Gullian nodded vigorously. Kairon set him down and patted his head. Gullian whimpered. Deekin and Eilora hurried the child off to a makeshift bed in the common room.

“Hey, guys. There are stairs here,” Monkey called. He swiped sweat from his brow and pointed. There were indeed stairs, and rising from the stairs was a wave of heat as if a furnace had just been opened.

“So we’re going to go see Kairon’s mother, apparently,” Aestith said.

Kairon shot Aestith a scowl, then frowned. “I think I missed her birthday… Shit.”

Aestith feigned surprise. “I thought tieflings hatched.”

He gave Aestith a condescending smirk. “I thought drow reproduced by budding. Like flatworms and other parasites.”

One white eyebrow rose. “Why would we do that when other means of reproduction is infinitely more entertaining?”

“The two of you make great role-models for Gullian,” Monkey commented, his voice flat as a melted flan.

“Who makes great role-models?” Deekin said as he and Eilora walked into the backroom.

“You, obviously,” Aestith said. “For Gullian.”

Deekin beamed. “Thank you, Aestith. It really means a lot, coming from you.”

Aestith frowned, uncertain if he were being mocked or if Deekin hadn’t understood him.

Monkey gestured. “Found a stairway to hell.”

Eilora groaned. “Why can’t it ever be a stairway to something nice?”

“It’ll be demons,” Aestith said glumly.

It was demons, and some kind of human wizard with a female wraith-like companion who managed to escape. One human looked much the same as another to Aestith, but Monkey commented, after the fight had ended, that the wraith had been Sylvia. He seemed slightly troubled by this.

Eilora looked over the runes and the markings, and she grew even paler. “Guys, I think this might be the guy who killed that cat.”

“Killed what cat?” Kairon wondered.

She sighed. “Fine. The guy who tortured the cat that I put out of its misery.”

Aestith thought of the bloodmoss currently sitting beside his desk, suddenly glad he had invested in the lead-lined box. “Right. We should leave.”

While they were talking to the brewer, Brass Monkey climbed up the gutter to get to Gullian’s window. A voice from upstairs yelled, “Be ready!” There was a crash and Gullian screamed.

Doudgrek paused mid-sentence. “Ah… Is young Master Gullian…”

“He’s  _ fine _ ,” Kairon said with a dismissive flick of his tail. “So about our pay.”

“Is it taken care of? Can I start brewing again? It’s only that, the beer would always sour, you see.”

Kairon nodded along dimly. “Yes, yes. You’ll need to repave the floor, but it’s taken care of.”

The man seemed doubtful. Deekin shepherded Gullian back to the guild. The child had to fend off one more attack from Monkey on the way there. They turned in the signed and completed contract, though Douglas of course wasn’t there so late at night.

Deekin walked Gullian to the bunkroom. The others slowly wandered to their beds. Aestith turned to leave. Kairon frowned. “Aestith, don’t you have a room here?”

“No,” Aestith replied.

He rubbed his chin. “Aestith. Where do you live, anyway?”

He glanced back at him. “Elsewhere.” He opened the door.

“Nearby? Because the only thing nearby are a bunch of gutters and alleys. Aestith, do you have a house?”

“An apartment.”

A pause. “Is it a wooden box in an alley?”

Aestith frowned, decided not to answer, and shut the door behind him. It opened again a short time later. The tiefling probably thought he was being stealthy when he attempted to follow Aestith, but he wasn’t. All that metal he wore made such things rather difficult. Aestith took a series of wrong turns, then slipped between the broken boards of a fence where the tiefling could never hope to fit. He took another wrong turn, just in case, then walked the long way to his abode. Two kids outside the warehouse coughing on smoke ran when they saw an armed drow walking toward them.

He stopped short, staring. His hands balled into fists. He was tired and exhausted after the fight and the long walk. He had wanted to just go home, Trance for a short time and pray. Maybe eat something come morning. Someone had boarded up the alley he usually walked through to get inside. Breaking it wouldn’t be that difficult; people broke things all the time through here. But the easiest way to do it would make a great deal of noise. He paced around to the other side, but the buildings were just as close together as he remembered. A cat might fit through it. He paced back around to the other side. Now what?

Drow nobility could just float over it. Defy gravity for a short period of time and go right over with no trouble at all.

Aestith wasn’t a noble. His family had  _ never _ been nobility. Not of any line, not going back as far as memory or story. It was obvious even just looking at him. Drow nobility were taller. They were bred for it; trained to better than their lessers. Their skin was a true black, like Ondalia’s, so dark black it held traces of blue and purple. Aestith’s skin was a dark charcoal at best. Not onyx or obsidian. Just a grey, like a dark ash. His skin had even freckled, a shameful mark of the sunlight. If he had been a noble, it would be too dark for such things to even show. Too dark for the small mole at the corner of his left eye--what some people called a beauty mark--to even show up.

He was suddenly, miserably, aware of his station in life.

He could buy himself these expensive clothes, put on heels to make himself look taller. Experiment with paints like Haeltania and spend an hour a day on his hair, but it made no difference.

_ Commoner. _

_ Merchant. _

_ Surface runaway. _

_ Male. _

His eyes squeezed shut. His chest ached and he couldn’t understand why his eyes were watering. He blinked and the water threatened to spill. He wanted so much more. He needed to be so much more than what he was, and it felt like he couldn’t rise above it. It felt like who he was, what he was, impeded everything he wanted out of his life.

He swallowed the pain and the loneliness and lifted his chin.  _ I’m being childish. Don’t cry about your damned problems, Aes. Fix it yourself. _

He shivered, looking up again at the fence. He could probably climb it. It would take a while. He might have to drag a box over to it and step on it, but he could probably do it. He would do it, he decided.

He walked up to the fence, tested it for any rot or weak points, but the wood was new enough, and the pine was solid and even still fragrant. He looked up, frustrated at its height being twice his own. Damned humans. His teeth clenched, and he balked when his feet left the ground. He stopped, braced against the wood. His eyes were wide when he looked down. His heat signature lay resting on the ground, fading quickly where he had been. He was a solid foot above the damp street. He swallowed, and rose another foot, slowly, then gained confidence. He sailed over it, pulled himself beyond the fence, concentrating hard on maintaining the spell.

He floated gently back down, heels clacking against the alleyway. A grin split his lips.

He was no drow noble, yet he had learned one of their tricks anyway. He bit back the laughter, the sheer glee. It felt like he had bested one of his betters.


	16. Survival

Aestith mentored Adam for a short time on how to properly break into houses. He gave him a dagger to defend himself. The boy was a little more beat up than he had used to be, but he stood up straighter, walked with more boldness. He was even dressing better. Moreover, the boy understood, without Aestith needing to point it out, that the drugs were no longer free. The stolen money, Adam gave to Aestith, and Aestith gave him more of the candy. Aestith also inquired as to any information or rumors Adam had picked up.

Some of it was just guard schedules, a bit of gossip, but anything at all could turn out to be of use. Before Aestith quite let Adam go, the drow told him that, sometimes, the letters in someone’s pockets could be more valuable than the gold. Adam couldn’t read, however, so was confused by this, but shrugged, said he could try that next time he was pickpocketing. Aestith made a mental note to go over that with a him a bit more efficiently too, but not today.

Today, Aestith was going down to the South Ward orphanage, somewhere he spent the occasional afternoon. It wasn’t an act of charity on his part; it was that watching someone else in misery made him feel better about his own life. The headmistress, Meredith, was initially suspicious of Aestith, but too world-weary and exhausted to turn down help, even from a drow. Which spoke volumes of her abilities to mind the children. She tried, though.

Aestith mostly tended to bruises and scrapes that the kids had, dressing the wounds expertly and treating any rat or insect bites with care. He diagnosed illnesses. Sometimes, he gave the child a candy, though normally the mundane sort.

By now, Meredith was relieved to see Aestith when he knocked on the door; when he was around, the thugs that usually bothered her made themselves scarce. She dry-washed her hands. “Aestith,” she said in relief. “I’m glad you’re here. You see…” She threw up her hands. “Derek has fallen ill.”

“A flu maybe?” Aestith suggested.

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I mean, perhaps, but I’m not sure.”

They walked toward the small room she used as an infirmary. There were a few sparse cots in the room, and in the far wall, a small boy wrapped in blankets. He sweat profusely.

“Could you tend to him?”

“Yes, of course.”

She hovered for a moment, then something in another room crashed, and she jumped, then excused herself. A chair was pulled beside the bed. There was a tin bucket of tepid water sitting on it. A rag hung wet on the side of the bucket. Aestith dipped the rag and rung it out, then mopped the boy’s brow. His skin was certainly warm to the touch. He was feverish and sweaty. Mostly unresponsive. The drow dropped the rag back over the side of the bucket. Aestith squinted in the light from the windows. How could humans see anything like this? This spectrum enabled him to read the pages on a book, but what good was it if he couldn’t distinguish the warmth of the body or the blood flow, a pulse of life?

He closed the shutters to engulf the room in darkness. No longer inhibited by the sunlight, the infrared showed him so much more. The boy did not flinch so much out of the daylight, but his body was flush with heat. The boy twitched under the patchy blankets, toes curling and uncurling. Fingers grasped at the sheets. His pulse was too quick, the flash of his throat as he breathed too rapid. His heart beat like a rat’s.

Aestith opened the shutters again, cringing only a little as his vision shifted to accommodate the sudden flush of light.

He strolled out of the room. Meredith met him in the hall. “Did you see him? Do you know what’s wrong?”

Aestith shrugged one shoulder. “He’s sick. Make sure he’s eating and getting enough water. I’ll be back later in the week to check on him.” He considered when the next full moon was. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“Do you think I should take him somewhere? A temple, maybe?”  
He knew she didn’t have the money for that. “No. You can’t leave the other children, and it’s just an illness. It’s a fever, yes, but just make sure he stays clean and hydrated. And keep him separated from the other children of course.”

She nodded, but seemed deflated. She lifted her head. “There’s… another thing.”

He suppressed a sigh. “Yes?”

“These thugs… They’re part of a gang around here. They make me pay a protection fee, and if I don’t pay, they come in and break things and hurt the children. But I don’t have the money. And…” She stared at him with dewy eyes. “I just want them to leave us alone.”

He had been half-expecting her to ask for a loan. Of course, she had seen the armor. The weaponry. The reputation of drow preceded him, and she had seen the way the thugs dissipated when he was about. He groaned inwardly. He didn’t need this in his life.

“Do you know the name of the gang?”

She shook her head. “No.”

He made a face. “Any… identifying clothing? Hair? Tattoos?”

She shook her head again. “No.”

He sighed, nodded. “Right. I’ll look around.”

“Thank you.” She acted like she wanted to embrace him, but held herself back. He moved past her to the main hall and left. He strolled down to where the Piece had their hideout, and asked a few questions. 

He wasn’t in the guild, so they were reluctant to speak to him, but the bartender said, “Look. We’re having some trouble in the South Ward ourselves.” He gave Aestith the name of a street. “Particular shop. Not paying his dues. You get him to pay, we’ll tell you what’s going on.”

Aestith rolled his eyes. He really didn’t need this in his life. Why was he doing it? He nodded, said he’d think about it, and left. He went back to the South Ward, cursing himself all the while for doing it. From a practical standpoint, he wanted to do this because if Meredith went to anyone else for help, she might tell them about Derek, and then Derek would be getting ready to die along with Zach in a cell. Lolth demanded that all creatures struggle. She demanded the suffering of those who did not worship her, and particularly those who failed her.

Aestith had some misgivings about turning in Zach to the guard; it would have caused some chaos that Lolth would have appreciated had he let it go, but he lived near there. Even if he didn’t, the other members of the guild had seemed fairly keen on abandoning any money-making opportunities to help the brat. The South Ward, however, was just far enough that he didn’t mind that so much. And he didn’t want Derek getting dragged off too. Besides, he had to wonder where the lycanthropes were hiding that they kept infecting children.

The Piece had mentioned to him that a shop near here was giving them some trouble. He made his way to the shop, verified the location, and walked past it. He checked the back alleys and the side streets, and eventually found what he was looking for. He fitted a bolt to the hand crossbow, then fired once. He put the weapon back and went to pick up the rat. He was a bit surprised, pleasantly so, to find it was still alive. He carried it by the scruff back to the shop.

He threw the door open. The proprietor jumped, saw Aestith, saw the huge sewer rat, and stared, mouth agape. Aestith slammed the dying animal down on the countertop. He removed his knife from his boot and scratched a symbol of a puzzle piece onto the counter. It was crude, but the message would be clear. Aestith tucked the knife away and grasped the bolt sticking out of the rat. He ripped it out. The barbed head tore and ripped the animal open. Blood splattered over the countertop. 

Aestith casually cleaned it on a bit of cotton cloth for sale in the store, and commented, “Shame if that were you, right?” He smiled sweetly at the gaping store owner and slid the bolt back into the quiver. “Have a nice afternoon, sir.”

Aestith checked back in with the Piece the next evening. They had, apparently, been paid their dues. He smiled. The bartender leaned against the counter. “So. Aestith, was it? Right. Do you want a job?”

Aestith tilted his head. “Maybe. Keep talking.”

“It seems like you can certainly get things done. We’re having a territory dispute ourselves in the South Ward. Those thugs are the Tarsqueakers, and they’ve been giving us some problems.”

Aestith made a face. Did he really need this in his life? “What’s in it for me?”

He shrugged, pulling back. “Money. A fair cut of the profits.”

It sounded, to Aestith, like just another restraint placed around him. The guild was a restraint. His stolen apartment was a restraint. Everything on the surface was just one more fiber in the rope tethering him to the surface. But the money could get him home, couldn’t it?

“I’ll have to consider it.”

“Don’t take long.”

He nodded and left with a puzzled frown. Was he ready to go home?

He sat in his small apartment, on the swept baked clay floor before the altar. The cellar room hadn’t been large before Aestith had taken it, and living there had only made it smaller. One corner was fully devoted to his alchemical lab, and another to his narrow bed, a few scavenged boxes and trunks he put foodstuffs and clothing. The altar, though, was what mattered. All that mattered.

Lolth was what mattered the most to him, and maybe that was why she had granted the powers of a cleric to someone so young, and someone who thought of himself as “he” no less.

_ I am a cleric _ , he thought, eyes closed. He could cast spells. He could turn back the undead, or raise them. Now, he could levitate like a noble, or dispel magic like one. He could even detect such things at will when he cared to. She had graced him beyond what he ever would have dared to even hope, let alone ask. He felt grateful, and would say that he was unworthy but such a thought was in itself sacrilegious; Lolth had deemed him worthy so he was. If she didn’t think he was worthy, he wouldn’t be here.

He’d be dead, which is what he certainly deserved. Every pull of air into his lungs was through her favor alone. It wasn’t blind luck; that wouldn’t have saved him time and again. He was here, and existed, because of her.

Nothing filled him with as much joy as serving her. He only wished he knew how to better serve her. How could he make himself a better servant to her? He lacked the formal training and the benefits of an education in the church. What he knew came only through revelation and learning what other clerics of different denominations could do, and came under the assumption that his own abilities were likely similar. They were, which made sense to him; Lolth was a goddess as well as the Spider Queen. The gods, like all living races, existed at the same time, together. There were similarities, weren’t there?

Two arms, two legs, a head. Yes, many races were all quite similar in that respect.

He inhaled the incense deeply. It was something he had had to concoct himself. Drow made their incense strong enough to dull the olfactory senses, so he had had to find similar blends. When he couldn’t, he had learned to make them himself. It wasn’t perfect.

His eyes slid open, watching the burning embers of the incense block on its censor. That settled it.

He  _ would _ return. And his sisters  _ would _ accept him. They  _ would _ leverage to get him into the church. And Rix would rise with him.

He clasped his hands together in a silent prayer, and contacted Amalette.

The spell was limited in ways, but powerful in others. He sent,  _ I want to go home, Amalette. It’s been too long. _

The reply was a long while in coming, and at first, he thought it wouldn’t. Her words made him reel, for he almost heard her voice aloud,  _ We thought you were dead. You’d be welcomed home, little brother. Where are you? _

He flinched, for he had no desire to answer her most direct question. It took him a while to decide if he even would, then he raised his chin, as if in defiance.  _ The surface. I can bring some valuable items to trade, including bloodmoss. You can have it. _

_ That is valuable. We can meet you in Skullport, but it will take a while to get there and we won’t hurry. _

He could send the spell once more, and he thought for a long time about what he might say to Amalette. He wanted to ask her a great many things, wanted only to talk to her, but the spell wouldn’t allow for pointless drivel. Instead, he replied,  _ I understand. I will try to meet you there and contact you when I arrive. _

_ Looking forward to it. _

He hugged his legs to his chest, terrified and terrifically happy at the same time. His eyes squeezed shut and he bit back a sudden laugh. He couldn’t believe how easy that had been. What had she thought, he wondered, getting those particular spells? Did she guess that he was a cleric?

Then he frowned. No. Wizards could cast similar spells, and she knew he had been training to be a wizard when he left. She probably thought she was picking up some kind of wizard to bring home. His throat felt dry. What would she say when she saw him? He lifted a palm and a glowing orb of light appeared above it. He stared at the polished brass mirror on the wall, his reflection. What did he looked like to others?

This freckled, androgynous-looking drow. He had finally grown into his own face, and even he couldn’t say if it were more effeminate or masculine. His petite body, so masculine in stature, but too shapely for a male. His hair, that he had used to hack so painfully short, now luxuriously long and cared for, pinned to his head and braided to an inch of its life. What would they say when he arrived, wearing heels with his hair done, breasts heaving in agitation? They would be shocked, certainly. Would they view him as too threatening?

He sneered. They might. But what could they do? He was a cleric.  _ He _ was a cleric. And what were they? A bard, a warrior, a blacksmith, a poisoner? None of them could do anything beyond keep their family stagnating in the merchant class forever. They needed him. His family needed him. A grin split his features. Even when Haeltania burned with jealous rage, what could she do?

Without him, the family would never rise. Without him, they were nothing.

He need not be concerned with meeting them, only of reaching Skullport. What did he know of the place?

He paced as he thought. A large place, held in a tense neutrality. His family had had trade routes there, if he recalled correctly.

Aestith was done with surviving; he wanted to thrive.


	17. Contracts

Getting to Skullport would be the real problem. For one, it wasn’t like he could hitch a ride with a merchant caravan or just go himself. Beyond the technical difficulties that it would take weeks to get there through the only two routes he knew for sure would bring him there, it was dangerous to go alone.

He could try to find that cave he had popped out of last fall, but he had tried to pinpoint it on a map. Surface maps just didn’t make sense to him, though. Even when he knew it had to be near that first village he had been at, he couldn’t say  _ how _ near, because it had taken him so long to learn the cardinal directions--something he still frequently had trouble with, and forget finding the location based on a star chart or something similar.

He could head back there and look, but he didn’t really hold much hope for that. The cave had been so small, and in a different season that would look entirely different. He wasn’t confident of being able to find it again, and even if he did, that cave system had been complicated enough that it may take him over a year to get anywhere, let alone Skullport. He had really only made it to the surface because he had gotten lost.

The best way down was through the Yawning Portal, for a given value of “best”. He hated that idea--it sounded suicidal.

Unless he could convince those idiots at the guild to come along. He considered. What could he use to entice them? Rumors, perhaps. The owner of the Yawning Portal had gone into the hole and come back out wealthy enough to build the tavern. Then there was his sister’s smithing, their money. He couldn’t guarantee much, but he could request that his sisters bring such things. Whether or not they would honor the request was hard to say, and it may just be a discount that they’d give, but Desarandian’s smithing was expensive and some of the best he had ever seen.

It was worth a try at convincing them anyway.

He spent the morning at the guildhall and when the others arrived, slowly, and started looking at jobs and discussing, he inserted himself into the conversation. “There doesn’t seem to be many high-paying jobs, does there?”

Dee, a halfling, nodded agreement. “Seems that way.” She sighed. “It’s all manual labor or menial tasks. Nothing high-paying.”

“Hey, Douglas, anything good?” Kairon called.

Douglas shook his head, and tried to act as if a wall separated him from the guild. Aestith drummed his fingers on the table, and said, “You know, I’ve been wanting to get to Skullport, in the Underdark. I know that’s quite a long ways, and it’s dangerous, but--have I ever mentioned that my family is actually quite wealthy? One of my sisters is a blacksmith.”

Kairon seemed intrigued. “Underdark weapons?”

Aestith shrugged one shoulder. “Yes, quite possibly.”

Eilora, predictably, made a face. “But that’s so far. And we could die.”

Grey eyes slid toward her. “I’d like to remind you that, while some people who go into the Underdark never come back, those that do usually return well-compensated for their travels.”

Deekin nodded amiably. “It would be an educational experience for Gulian.”

“We are not bringing a child into the Underdark!” Eilora snapped.

A smile tugged at the corner of Aestith’s lips. “So…?”

“We should consider it,” Kairon said slowly. “But I think we’d need to take some time to prepare for a trip like that.”

Aestith contented himself with that. Hiring people would have been too risky, but enticing people down out of greed, while still proving to be a risk, would be preferable. It helped that he knew each of them a fair bit, and they were at least predictable.

With nothing to do at the guild, the group dispersed. Aestith returned again a few hours later, mostly out of boredom.

A half-elf looked over a sliver of paper on the notice board. Dee sat in a chair, slowly falling asleep. Kairon cleaned his sword by the window. The half-elf called, “So this one is new, right?”  
Douglas, still at his desk, looked up. “Oh, the Dechagney contract. Yeah.” He shrugged. “Came in a couple of hours ago. He seemed pretty distraught.”

The half-elf nodded. “Well, if his friend is missing, I think that would be stressful.” An imp peered over the half-elf’s shoulder at the paper.

Kairon looked up. “How much is it for?”

“50 gold,” the warlock said.

The tiefling looked back at his sword with a dismissive snort. Dee rubbed one eye and hopped off of the chair. “Well, I’ll look into it.” She looked to Kairon, then to Aestith.

Kairon lifted his head only briefly. “50 gold split four ways isn’t worth me getting off my ass.”

Aestith looked again at the notice board, then sighed deeply. Was it worth not being bored all day? “I’ll go,” he said with reluctance. He raised an eyebrow at Kairon. “I suppose tieflings are just lazy.”

Kairon’s spine stiffened. The half-elf smiled warmly, interrupting Kairon before he spoke. “Well, I’d love to go out and see the city. I just arrived in town.” He pointed at himself. “My name is Tim.”

Dee nodded. “I’m Dee.”

Tim glanced at Kairon, who stared at Tim a long moment, then said, “Kairon.”

Tim looked at Aestith, who ignored him. Tim cleared his throat, then stepped toward the drow. “Hi, I’m Tim.”

Aestith snorted. “Is that so.”

Tim paused a moment, but the smile did not falter. “What’s your name?” A pause, slight concern. “Do drow have names?”

Aestith suppressed a groan. “Aestith.” He pushed past Tim and went to Douglas to sign the contract.

Kairon smoldered as the other three accepted the contract, then added his name to it too, as if to spite them. The four of them filed out of the guildhall and huddled over the contract details. The Dechagney man was supposed to be at a nearby tavern, so the odd group marched their way there. They had to ask around for him, and eventually found a frazzled, sleepless man sitting hunched over a mug of untouched ale. He seemed distressed.

Aestith had little interest in speaking or trying to calm him; the half-elf made chitchat and, ultimately, came up with something resembling a lead.

“So the gang that abducted his friend is in a hideout in the South Ward,” Tim drawled in a recap of the previous discussion, as if he knew Aestith had not been listening.

Aestith frowned. More gang problems in the South Ward. He groaned internally. He really didn’t want to deal with some stupid turf war. It was a lot of bloodshed and risk of death with little to no reward, and he said so.

“Friendship is its own reward,” Tim said obliviously.

Aestith stared at him for a long moment, then pushed past him to lead the way. Kairon fell into step beside Tim and Dee dawdled after Aestith. The conversational topic of choice--friendship--seemed to be chosen to antagonize Aestith. Drow didn’t make friends, not really. You had colleagues, acquaintances, people you knew well, family, and things of that nature, but  _ friends _ did not factor into drow society. The concept was not only foreign but detrimental. It required trust, and what was the use in that?

Aestith had only been alive for 42 years, but had spent much of that time apart from the only society he had ever really felt a part of. In all that time, he had observed the phenomenon of friendship. With dwarves, it was a sort of camaraderie, and Aestith could at least understand that to some extent. Humans were far stranger and they made little sense. He couldn’t understand the unburdening of emotions they lent to one another, talking and gossip and such. There was some value in helping each other, quid pro quo of course, but there didn’t seem to be much point to it otherwise.

“Perhaps we should ask around about that gang,” the cleric said blandly. He thought it best that Tim did this, as the one that the peasants were most likely to talk to.

Kairon and Aestith hung back while Tim and Dee tried to charm people into coughing up information. An uneasy, but familiar and thus comfortable, tension hung in the air between them.

“What did you say your god was, Kairon?” Aestith said, eyeing his tabard of Helm. He certainly didn’t act like any paladin of Helm.

Kairon gestured at the emblem adorning his garments. Aestith nodded once, filing the information away for future use. Dee gave up and came back but Tim returned in high spirits. His imp, invisible but not weightless, latched to his shoulder, making odd indentations in his robes. “I made a new friend, and she told me where to find the warehouse.”

Aestith’s expression remained blank. “That so. Well, lead on.”

Tim turned, down the street that would lead to Aestith’s basement. The drow’s fingers opened and clenched but was otherwise impassive. Then Tim turned down a different road. It was several blocks from Aestith’s basement. The four passed it by once and Tim jerked his head toward it. They stopped at the end of the block. Tim sent his invisible imp to look around it.

“How do we want to break in?” Tim asked when the imp returned. He used a stick and sketched a rough outline of the place in the dirt. They stared down at it in a tight circle.

Aestith shrugged a shoulder. “We could always try the front door and ask them nicely to return our client’s friend.”

Kairon and Dee understood the comment as sarcasm, but Tim didn’t seem to know what sarcasm meant. The half elf said, “Well, I’m sure they didn’t intend to kidnap someone.”

The paladin and the cleric exchanged glances. Dee said, “Tim. Where did you say you were from?”

“A temple. I’ve never really been outside it before.”

“Ah.” Kairon looked at Aestith. “So how about Tim goes up to the front door. I come in through this side door with Dee, you stay out here and backup Tim when things go to shit.”

Aestith frowned, and stole a quick look at the warehouse. “Anyone have a Fly spell?”

“Nope.”

He sighed. And he was the only one who could levitate too. He glanced at Kairon. The levitation ability didn’t have to be cast only on himself, though. It could just as easily be cast on another. “Perhaps I could levitate Kairon to the second story, and he could drop down on them.”

Kairon brightened. “I’m game.”

Tim frowned. “I’m always happy to make new friends.”

“Right. Go make some new friends at the front door of the warehouse,” Aestith encouraged. Tim strolled forward. The others walked behind him. Aestith whispered, “He’s going to get himself killed with that attitude.”

“I know, but it’s so funny,” Kairon whispered back.

Kairon clanked and clunked in his plate mail on his way to the other entrance. Dee, in comparison, was entirely noiseless. Aestith nodded to Tim, and Tim rapped politely on the front door. He paused, then knocked more loudly. Tim was silent a long moment. He called, “Hello? I’m here to tell you about our lord and savior, Helm. Is anyone there? I can hear you!”

Dee mouthed,  _ Roll with it. _ The tiefling disappeared around the corner. 

Tim knocked ferociously for a moment, then tried the door. He glanced at Aestith. “Hey, it’s unlocked.” He peered inside. “Hello?”

Aestith waited for the inevitable crossbow bolt to Tim’s face, but it didn’t happen. When nothing continued to happen, he strolled up to Tim. “Kairon! Dee!” Aestith called. “The door is open.”

There was a pause, some more clanking of armor, and Kairon joined them. “The door was jammed,” he explained. “Dee is trying to break in to flank them.”

Aestith raised an eyebrow, then looked at Tim. “Well. In you go.”

Kairon pushed his way to the front and strolled in, clanking like a wagon full of tin drums. Tim charged in after him. Aestith checked the sides of the building, looked again at the street. “I’m going to check around back,” he said.

“Coward!” Kairon yelled. Aestith ignored this, and walked around the building. The sound of Kairon fighting something was audible even from outside, though it was fairly brief. Dee seemed to be struggling with the lock and swearing under her breath; it was jammed. Aestith peeked around the back of the building, pleasantly surprised to find that the gap between it and the next warehouse was about the width of a book.

The sounds of the fighting had died out by the time he got back to the front door. Kairon was yelling at someone. Aestith groaned and stepped inside. The interrogation was going poorly, in that Kairon had intimidated the man, but had intimidated him to the point that the gangmember was a drooling lunatic instead of a source of useful information.

Tim ignored the goingson and perused the warehouse. Aestith drew Kairon back and moved to the gangster. He stared down at the man. Aestith rarely stared  _ down _ at anyone, except in circumstances like these. He smiled sweetly. “Things are going to go very badly for you if you don’t tell us what we’d like to know.” He squatted on his haunches to be level with the man. “Now, why don’t you explain to us what you did with a human you kidnapped? What was his name, Kairon?”

Dee replied, “Mr. Nicholas Fauntleroy.”

Aestith nodded, his gaze never leaving the thug. “Yes. Him. Now, do be a dear and tell us where you keep your guests.”

The man looked from Kairon to Aestith and gibbered. Aestith sighed and stabbed him in the leg, which stopped the gibbering with a quail of terror and pain. He removed the knife and tapped it against the man’s other thigh. “If you insist on making noises like a monkey, I’m afraid you’re of no use to me.” The knife trailed down to the man’s right ankle. “You keep doing that, I’ll slice through this little tendon on the back of your ankle. If you ever walk again, it will be with a limp. Can you promise me to calm down?’ The man nodded vigorously. Aestith’s smile remained fixed. The thug nodded. Aestith said, “Good. Now, please tell me where you keep your guests. Specifically, Mr. Fauntleroy.”

The man moved his arm so suddenly that Aestith nearly stabbed him on impulse, but the man was pointing at a wall. Tim looked up from the boxes he was trying to open to see, then stalked over to the wall. He called, “Where?”

“The wall,” the man gasped. Sweat dripped down his blotchy cheeks like coagulated blood. “Switch.” He swallowed hard and looked at Aestith and Kairon. “I can go now? I told you what you wanted?”

“Why’d you take him?” Aestith said quietly.

He shrugged. “Boss said we gotta. Said, we had a chance to ransom a noble. So…”

Aestith sighed. He had been hoping for more. “That’s it? Think hard.”

Sweat pooled in the wrinkles of his forehead and spilled into his bushy eyebrows. “Boss don’t like nobles.”

The drow was silent a moment, then cleaned his knife on the man’s pantleg. He slid it back into his boot and rose. “Kairon?” Aestith said. “Why don’t we show our friend to some new accommodations?” He inclined his head toward an open crate. Once the sacks of rice were removed, it very neatly fit an adult human male. Kairon nailed it shut and placed a barrel over it. By then, Tim and Dee had located a switch. The man sobbed and clawed at the wood.

The switch was less dramatic than one may have hoped, and only unlocked a panel so that a section of the wall could be slid to one side. Inside, a tired, beaten man was tied to a chair. “Fauntleroy?” Aestith said.

The man nodded once. They untied him and Dee offered him water. They left the warehouse with scarcely a backward glance toward the captured thug.

“Do you know why they captured you?” Dee asked Fauntleroy.

The man scratched at the stubble on his chin. “No.” He frowned. “But, you know, I’d always been told things like that could happen. Idiot thugs trying to kidnap nobility for ransom and things like that.” He laughed without humor. “But nobility doesn’t equate to wealth.” He paused. “I’m lucky you showed up when you did. I fear what they’d have done when they learned I really couldn’t have paid.”

Aestith was only half-listening and he fell behind the other three.  _ Nobility did not beget wealth. _ True on the surface as well as Enainsi, and the reverse as well. Though, wealth could lead to nobility. For him, acquiring the password to the speakeasy of nobility was not straightforward. Even if he could do some of their tricks, he  _ wasn’t _ a noble. He’d never look like one, certainly. There was no guarantee that the church would accept him either, his abilities or no. Without enough backing, he would just be killed.

What Aestith should have been doing in that moment was listening to the latter part of what Fauntleroy said; the contractor claimed he would send the money to the guildhall, but he never did. The guild, being a small guild and without much means, would have ordinarily been stiffed out of the offered gold and thus so would the members, but they were livid enough to raise the funds for a lawyer. After all, it was also about being cheated out of money, and Aestith was vindictive. He wanted to just kill both of them in retaliation, but managed to stifle his more base urges for a potentially larger payout further on. Tim, Dee, and Kairon pontificated on their plight to Eilora, Monkey, and Deekin, who, in exchanged for a promised cut, also chipped in for the lawyer.

A court date was set, but they still had to earn a living in the meantime.

Kairon brought in a contract from the guard, which he occasionally contracted for, to go to Neverwinter. It paid better than the meager work the guild was offering, so Aestith took it, despite his misgivings; the plan was to take a boat there, and Aestith hated the horizon. He spent much of the journey belowdeck trying not to consider the open sky and the sea that went on forever around him.

A few weeks ago, they had all traveled to some small island with a cargo of lizard eggs, apparently stolen and ransomed back. Kairon had attempted to seduce the tiefling captain--which had been amusing enough at the time. Monkey had made friends with one of the crewmates, then murdered him. Aestith and Kairon had spent the remainder of the journey covering up the murder. Aestith had had to feign performing a spell to make the dead speak and pretend that it hadn’t worked, which was infuriating. He wasn’t convinced the captain had believed him. Aestith was grateful that Brass Monkey was doing literally anything except going with them.

Deekin, of course, brought Gulian. The child whined and complained the entire time, until either Aestith or Kairon threatened him, then the boy would be quiet for a short amount of time, then begin whining again. Tim occasionally attempted to teach Gulian how to play simple dice or card games, but Tim himself was not particularly good at these either. His imp was the best player of the three.

When they arrived in Neverwinter, the guards and Kairon started to set out on the mission they arrived for. Aestith stopped them. “Do we have passage back yet?”

“I can find something,” Deekin said.

“Perhaps we should do that first, and leave the prisoner we’re after in his cage a bit longer,” Aestith suggested. He was in no hurry to deal with an oathbreaker paladin. The guards shrugged and agreed. Deekin and Gulian wandered the docks while the others waited, mostly in silence. Eilora fussed over her badger. Deekin came back a short time later with a chartered fishing boat. He explained that it would be cramped, but the fisherman could leave tomorrow as opposed to “sometime this tenday” the other captains he had spoken to said.

“So I guess we need an inn for the evening,” Eilora said with a nod. The others seemed content enough to go spend the evening at an inn. Aestith made a face and suggested exploring the city a bit. The guards seemed to like that idea. After they agreed on an inn to meet back at, Deekin gave Aestith one of their set of sending stones and Aestith wandered off alone. Or rather, he tried to wander off alone.

Tim followed him, chatting amiably about the weather the entire time. Aestith thought that Tim might leave him alone at some point if he got bored enough, so Aestith poked around through shops and bookstores at a lackadaisical pace. He found a tarnished shield of Tyr at a general store on a back shelf. It was under an old tarp. The proprietor was suspicious of Aestith for even wanting it, but it was just taking up space, so he let it go for what Aestith considered to be reasonable enough.

As the evening wore on and Tim still hadn’t left, Aestith continued ignoring him and marched off into the red lantern district, thinking that surely Tim would be distracted at some point and leave, but he followed Aestith right into the rather upscale brothel. A hostess seated Aestith on a sofa and gave him a catalogue. He flipped through the waxed vellum pages. A waitress came by with a silver tray. He accepted the offered wine and sipped as he looked. Tim gawked and stared.

The hostess came back for Aestith to make a selection. He returned the catalogue and left Tim in the lobby.

For sexual company, Aestith was only interested in drow, but he had no trouble paying one of the courtesans to give him an oil massage. Deekin contacted him once during the massage, which was annoying. Aestith explained only briefly where he was, and that he had left Tim in the lobby.

Tim was  _ not _ in the lobby by the time Aestith emerged from the room, though he was feeling too refreshed and relaxed to care overmuch, until the hostess brought the bill. Aestith glared at Tim.

The half-elf shrugged hopelessly. “We didn’t get paid from the last time.”

Aestith continued glaring at him as he paid and tipped the hostess. Aestith sipped from his wine glass. “Tim. Perhaps if you don’t have any money, you shouldn’t order any services.”

Tim stared into some middle-distance. “Well, I just thought I was making a friend, and she said that we should go somewhere private to talk. But that is  _ not _ what she had in mind.”

Aestith nearly choked on the wine. “What? How…” He groaned and downed the rest of the glass. “Damn it, Tim.”

“What?”

Aestith muttered a curse in Undercommon as he made his way out of the brothel. Tim followed close behind him. Deekin was outside. Aestith jerked, taken aback. “Deekin, why did you bring the child here?” he hissed.

“Well, I didn’t realize that this place was a brothel!” Deekin hissed back. Gulian’s eyes were wide as he tried to peer around Deekin’s feeble attempts at shielding him.

Aestith frowned. “Well, why did you try to come find me?”

“Because that’s what friends do!” Tim chimed.

Aestith’s fingers flexed and he resisted the urge to hit Tim. It wouldn’t accomplish anything, but it would make him feel better. “Deekin.”

Deekin raised a scaly eyebrow at Aestith. “The drow goes wandering around Neverwinter,” he said flatly.

“I do not need a babysitter,” Aestith snapped. The bickering continued all the way back to the inn, Deekin desperately trying to shield Gulian’s innocent eyes from the goings-on.

Eilora caught the tail end of the bickering as Deekin said, “... Oh, Aestith, stop. You shouldn’t be going to brothels either. You’re just a kid yourself.”

“I am older than you!” Aestith complained.

“You’re whining as much as Gulian,” Tim commented.

Eilora snorted. “Aestith, you’re a child.”

Aestith’s eyes flared red with temper. He stomped through the doors to the inn and shut the door in Eilora’s face behind him. It was petty, and immature. It only solidified her point. His temper guttered out. What was the use in it?

He refused to share a room with any of the others, and was more than willing to pay for his own.

They picked up the oathbreaker in the morning and rented a cart to haul him, in his cage, toward the docks. The man was bound and gagged, a tarpaulin pinned over the cage. Eilora rode in the carriage with him, Cakecake staring out the back. Aestith flanked one side of it, but reminded everyone that he would be useless for spotting potential attacks; the daylight was too bright.

Oddly, it was Gulian who saw the odd discrepancies, and started whispering frantically to Deekin, whose eyes widened. Deekin circled back, talking to each person in turn. When he arrived to Aestith, he fell into step beside him and said, “Don’t look, but some of the people in the market crowd are all wearing the same boots. And they have weapons.”

To Aestith, if this had been the Underdark, this would not have struck him as particularly odd. If anything, it would have been a rather dull observation at best; everyone was armed, and plenty of people had uniforms or house livery. Here, that was strange.

He frowned. “What about the wagon driver’s boots?”

Deekin’s eyes widened and he turned toward the wagon. A crossbow bolt thunked against the side of the wagon, narrowly missing Eilora. A volley of shots were aimed at the guards, the guildmembers, and particularly the wood elf.

Deekin hurried back toward Gulian, who had dove under the wagon wheel. The driver halted the horses uncertainly, but seemed far too calm. Eilora shot back at a crossbowman. The crowd dispersed, screaming.

Kairon and Aestith ran the crossbowmen down while Eilora fiercely guarded the wagon. Dee seemed to disappear in the crowd and streets as she hunted down the attackers.

“Kid, cut the horses free of the wagon!” Aestith yelled, hoping Gulian heard him, and understood. The kid did not move, but Deekin reached him, said something to him. The whiny, petulant brat hesitated a long moment, then sprang forward with a knife. He hacked and slashed at the leather straps. The wagon driver reached for his whip. Cakecake lunged at him with a vicious snarl. The pair fell from the wagon.

Aestith turned from the wagon to deal with the crossbows. He whispered prayers that fed his spells and powered his arm, moving from one street to an alley, to another alley. To each swing and stab of his rapier, the gauntlets ignited and the flame rushed down the blade. The ruby set in them seemed to surge as the trapped fire elementals inside twisted. He met Kairon in the center and they looked at the wagon. The four guards were still alive, well enough to continue working. The horses had been cut free and ran.

Aestith cleaned his rapier as he stomped back to the wagon. “What the hell was that on about?”

One of the guards shrugged weakly. “We did tell you that some people supported the paladin.” He inclined his head toward the cage.

Eilora sighed, exasperated. “But no one knew why we were here! 

Dee looked at the others. “Did any of you tell anyone?”

One by one, they shook their heads, all except Tim, whose eyes were wide. The others stared, waiting. He smiled weakly. “I just… She just asked me what we were doing here.”

“The whore?” Aestith snapped. “You told the damned whore why we were here?”

“Well, she asked. And I thought she was my friend.”

Aestith’s fingers twitched into a fist. He wanted to backhand the half-elf, and to let it serve as a valuable lesson in stupidity. Instead, he addressed the guards, “We’ll need another wagon.”

Two left to amend the situation. The cityguard arrived shortly, and Aestith thought it best to hang back and observe the two Waterdeep guards explain the situation. Aestith checked under the tarp, then considered and decided to use one of the drow noble tricks he had learned to detect magic. He sensed no trickery here, not with magic anyway, and dropped the tarpaulin.

Kairon plopped down on the wagon seat with a heavy clunk. He grinned lazily at the tarp and rolled his eyes. “Dumbass,” he snorted.

“Tim or this paladin?” Aestith said.

“Yes?”

Aestith nodded. They moved the paladin to another wagon when it arrived, and the Neverwinter guards escorted them to the docks. They piled onto the schooner and made berth before anything else happened.

The first ship had been bad enough, but this one was worse. It reeked of old fish and the quarters were cramped as a prison. It was filthy, and the ship rocked and tilted with every small wave. Aestith thought he might be sick several times, but managed to stifle it. He had to cast a Silence spell any time they fed the captured paladin, lest he still have any of his old powers. It was a miserable time back to Waterdeep.

Eilora and Deekin quickly forgave Tim his naive misstep, but Aestith was not so forthcoming. How could anyone live long enough to stand in battle yet was so incredibly naive? How could anyone allow someone else to go out into the world with such a poor notion of reality?

Aestith struggled to understand how such a thing could even come to be. He always had to remind himself of how very different things were between here and Enainsi. The surface world was plenty dangerous, and Aestith couldn’t fathom why so many people were so useless.

He walked back from the docks to the warehouse basement. He passed a family of six living in poverty. The mother was pregnant again, and had a dark bruise on her cheek. Her husband reeked of cheap ale and sweat. It disgusted him.

He was disgusted at the concept of a patriarchal society, and disgusted that someone would choose to have so many children when they clearly could not afford it. Drow shed the excess, because they couldn’t support it; he understood that now. He had grown up in wealth and had used to think that the sacrifice of the third son was nonsensical, but watching the sad, beaten woman, he understood.

All those children were deadweight, when fewer were supportable. You might as well keep the ones that were of value and shed the others. And, if the wealthy were allowed to keep their third sons and the poor were not permitted the same privileges, they would likely keep them anyway. Hide them, perhaps, but keep them all the same. They would be even worse off. And what happened if a wealthy family fell on hard times? What happened if a poor family rose? Wasn’t it better to have the same rules apply to everyone? Besides, it kept the poor in line. If the wealthy were exempt from such a custom, that way led rebellion.

Drow hadn’t always lived in the Underdark. That seemed obvious enough to him. Culturally, they had likely been a lot like the moon elves; a matriarchal theocracy. The third son sacrifice had probably only come about because of the limited resources of the Underdark and the tenant of Lolth to sacrifice males. It probably had not been an easy decision to come to, or to make, originally. But it had allowed them to live and thrive. You trimmed off the weak to keep the rest strong. A bitch shunned a sick puppy to protect its litter.

Certain species of wolf were rare because they cared for the old and sick instead of let them die off. They tried to protect the weakened ones, and tried to help them when they were trapped or injured. If they left them to die instead, the wolves would have thrived instead of died.

_ This is why written histories are discouraged, _ he reminded himself. History led to second-guessing one’s ancestors, wondering about one’s culture. Then you had philosophy, which was often diametrically opposed to religion and a stable theocracy. He worried, briefly, that he was becoming too much like a surfacer.

He turned a corner, and nearly ran into the white drow.

Aestith stepped backwards in surprise. The other tilted his head, then sidestepped. “Sorry,” the other said.

Aestith made no move to pass. He turned toward the albino, his gaze rolling over the stylized depiction of the night sky on his face. The tattoo ran down his neck and disappeared into the dirty collar of his leathers. Aestith searched for any hint of magic, and was disappointed to discover that the tattoos were real. “Why would you do that?” he said quietly. “Those tattoos.”

The other paused. He spoke in a lowborn accent. “Oh. Moon elves traditionally tattoo themselves.”

Aestith jerked as if slapped. “A moon elf?” he demanded.

The other nodded with the patience of one who explained himself often. “Yeah. Most common elves that go into towns, y’know? Most half-elves are moon elves.”

Aestith twitched. “You believe you’re a moon elf?”

He tilted his head. His long white hair brushed against his leathers. “Well, yeah.” He smiled, as if he thought Aestith were amusing. “What else would I be?”

Aestith stood stunned. “Where did you come from?” he said slowly.

A shit-eating grin slipped over his face. “My mother.”

Aestith raised an eyebrow. “You grew up among moon elves?”

He frowned. Maybe Aestith had been mistaken. His resolved faltered a moment, then he looked again at the stranger’s height--only slightly taller than Aestith--and his slender build. He was, without mistake, a drow. The stranger said, “For a little while.” He made a face, as if he could say more, but didn’t.

In the dim light on the street, the other’s eyes were a pale pink. Aestith felt that he was somehow losing this fight. “Of… course.” He glanced again at the eyes. “Are you albino?”

A smile. “How observant. The eyes give it away, innit?”

Aestith wasn’t sure if he was more angry that a drow kept insisting, to another drow no less, that he was a moon elf, or that the drow in question seemed to believe it. How could he convince him otherwise? He couldn’t even kick the man in the shins and show him a mirror when he got angry and his eyes turned red; they were  _ pink _ . “I…” His shoulders sagged. “Yes.”

The other nodded, then started to step away. He was barefoot, which Aestith assumed was a choice, considering the sword and the bow on his back. Only a thick strap of leather wrapped around the arch of his foot, leaving the toes and the heels free. The tattoo reached all the way down to his ankle. The man stopped and looked back at Aestith. “Why do you ask?”

Aestith’s resolve strengthened. He had to do something. He couldn’t let this drow continue on like this. He shrugged. “I apologize. I glimpsed you in the market the other day, and I was just curious. What brings you to Waterdeep anyway?”  
“I could ask the same of you.” He smiled and tilted his head. “Over drinks?”

Aestith’s eyebrows arched in surprise. That had been incredibly simple. Aestith fell into an easy step beside him. He usually had to walk quickly to keep up with people lately, being so much shorter than all of his usual guildmembers, but the stranger was nearly of a height with him and a similar stride.

“My name is Aestith.”

The other nodded. “Aestith? Like Aesdondia, the dragon slain about… Less than fifty years ago, I think.”

Aestith’s lips parted in a small “o” of shock. He found himself smiling. “No one ever pieces that together,” he said. “Yes.”

“I remember when she fell,” he mused. “I was in… I think it was Neverwinter. Performing. With my theatre troupe. Anyway, my name is Aracnelxeth.”

Aestith stared at him flatly. That was a drow name.

He flashed Aestith a grin. “But most people trip over that prononciation, so it’s Arcedi.”

Aestith frowned quizzically. “Arcedi?”

“In a particular Common dialect, a ‘th’ at the end of a word is an impossible sound, so “di” replaces it. So Arcedi.”

Aestith frowned. Did the drow believe he was a moon elf? With that name, he just had to know better. Then why the tattoos? Aestith’s head spun. The two passed into a bar and plopped down at an empty table. Arcedi was entertaining, speaking so easily to these surfacers like he truly suspected no ulterior motives among them. He didn’t even inspect his drink much before he took a swallow--and that was saying something in the Docks Ward.

Arcedi smiled, and kept eye contact with Aestith in a way that no male drow should have. Aestith couldn’t understand it. The name seemed to be the only implication that the other even knew what he was. Why would a moon elf have a name like that? None of it made sense.

Aestith, unable to wrestle any direct answer from Arcedi, instead asked him why he was in Waterdeep. This was a long, convoluted story in itself, and Arcedi was not a storyteller. Arcedi could juggle, could dance, said he could play the viol, but his story was out of order, and he left out details more because he seemed to genuinely forget them than that he was being deceitful, for he would fill in the blanks later.

Arcedi used to be a performer, floating around from circus to mystery cycle, to traveling theatre. Each of these he used as a front to steal things, quickly out of town again before he could be found out. Eventually, he got bored and graduated to full-fledged piracy. When he got tired of taking orders, he and a few friends had acquired their own ship and set sail. “That was met,” he said with a grin, “with disaster.” The captain, in the end, had gone down with her ship. He leaned back in the chair then, and admitted, “The  _ Acquilla  _ was really everything Tasha had ever wanted. It was her dream, and she refused to give it up. Even when she knew she would die otherwise.” He rolled his pink eyes. “So anyway, the ship sank and it was just me’n the other two.” He shook his head. “It all became a dog’s breakfast after that. I went home. Now I’m here.”

Aestith was waiting for such a statement, and he said, “Where’s home?”  
The other smiled slyly. “Aestith, you could walk right by a moon elf village and never see it, except for the temples. And I’m not about to tell a drow where one is.”

Aestith’s lips pursed. “Is that so.”

“It is. Now, tell me, since I told you, and I think this will be more interesting, why don’t you tell me how a drow ended up in Waterdeep?”

Aestith ran a finger along the uneven rim of the cup. “There are no drow in Waterdeep.”

Arcedi smiled, as if Aestith had finally answered correctly. “Then tell me how  _ you _ ended up in Waterdeep?”

Aestith felt like a moment ago, he had been standing on something solid, and only just now had begun to slide. He kept his confusion carefully off of his face and he propped his elbows on the stained tabletop. “Would you believe me if I said I got horribly lost?”

He snorted a laugh. “You’d be surprised how common that is.”

“In my case, it’s true.” He tilted his head. He couldn’t figure Arcedi out. Who was he? What was he doing here really? He couldn’t tell if that convoluted story was real or not. There were so many details that he assumed that much of it had to be, but it could have been years ago, and it was already difficult to tell how old an elf was. Drow were easier, because of the changes in hair color over time, but this one was albino. He just had to find out if a ship by the name  _ Acquilla _ had ever docked here, and how long ago. Arcedi had elaborated that they had not had the ship very long. And the captain had been a Changeling, so it wasn’t like they had been off pirating for decades. “How long are you in town?”

He made a face. “I’m not sure. I suppose until I figure out where I want to go next.”

Aestith looked at the cup, then his eyes flicked to Arcedi. “Have you ever been to the Underdark?”

He shook his head. “No. Never been. Wouldn’t mind going.”

Aestith’s brow creased. He supposed that it wasn’t impossible, not with the Spellplague. Just very strange. And the tattoos still didn’t make sense. Aestith couldn’t figure out if the other had ever discovered the truth, or were just fucking with him. “When do moon elves usually get tattoos?”

He drained his cup. “Adulthood.”

Aestith’s gaze ran down the tattoo. The purples and blues were bright and vibrant as watercolor paint. It hadn’t been decades ago. “Do you need to get them retouched?”

“Yeah. But I haven’t been back since I got them, and I wouldn’t have anyone but a moon elf do it, innit.”

He wasn’t asking the right questions. He had been on track with that previous statement, but he felt like he had veered off course somehow. “Your family is there?”

Arcedi was silent a short moment. “I suppose.” He made a face. “People who raised me. That’s family, innit?” The last part seemed bitter, and Aestith’s spine straightened. He was onto something. Arcedi inspected his empty cup, glanced at the barmaid, then looked back at Aestith. “I never really fit in there.”

Aestith nodded. “You’re not really like them.”

He smiled, something less a smirk or a laugh. His teeth were as white as his skin. “Took me almost eighty years to figure out what was wrong.”

Aestith pushed his mostly full cup toward Arcedi. The other picked it up almost unthinkingly, but this time, stared at it instead of drinking first. He looked at Aestith. Aestith said, “What was the tipping point?”

“I went home to visit. Me mum mentioned that I’d be getting marked soon, and we workshopped some plans. Well, when I mentioned a constellation or a map, she started talking about colors.” He set the cup down and gestured to the tattoo. “Moon elves are practically nocturnal. Spend a lot of time out at night, and a lot of them look at the sky. Well, I always thought that was boring.” He was quiet a moment. “I suppose that’s because, to me, the night sky is just a cold black with little pinpoints of bright light in different colors. But she started talking about purples and blues, violet, not in the stars, but in the void.” His brow creased. “And I can’t see that in the night sky.”

Aestith’s eyes slid toward the tattoo. Was the night sky really all those shades of blue and purple? Was it more than what Aestith could see in infrared? He felt, strangely, cheated. Could every other race see it but Drow? No wonder Drow lived underground. There was nothing for them up here. Aestith’s voice came softly. “Do you know anything about Drow?”

He reached for the cup again, tilted the contents from one side to the other idly as he spoke. “Little,” he admitted. “I know what people say.”

“How much of it do you think is true?”

He smiled. “Most of it.”

“And what do you think of it?”  
He set the cup down again, untouched. He looked at the closest person, some barfly well into his cups. He looked back at Aestith. “I think that if someone can’t defend themselves, maybe it’s their own fault they died. I think that every culture and race raids and kills another, and that’s normal. And I think the sunlight is vile, and I always have.” He gave a lopsided grin that, unexpectedly, made Aestith’s insides twist. “But, y’know, moon elves are practically nocturnal, so no surprises there.”

And Aestith, suddenly, understood Arcedi’s game. Arcedi  _ wasn’t _ a drow, because there weren’t any in Waterdeep. He was a moon elf, and it made people more amiable toward him, made him less suspicious, so he wore his albinism like armor, even when he felt out of place posing as a moon elf. Maybe it was even true that he had adoptive moon elf parents who had thought that nurture could win out again nature. He had the tattoos to prove it. He certainly knew little and less of Drow, anyway.

Aestith gently offered to teach him. They paid the tab and left the bar, Aestith at first only telling him about the cultural norms, habits, traditions, then it slowly trailed to Lolth. Aestith’s life began and ended with the Spider Queen, and his thoughts and behavior reflected that. He spoke with a passion about her that fascinated Arcedi. He seemed to drink in whatever Aestith told him.

The evening grew later, and Aestith felt the wear of the past couple of weeks hang on him. He wanted to go home. He almost wanted to invite Arcedi home. He didn’t, only made a comment that he had been out at sea the past several days, and he was eager to rest. Arcedi nodded with understanding. “How can I find you again? I want to learn more.”

Aestith hesitated, but only a moment. “I’m usually around the docks ward.” He told him about the guildhall.

Arcedi nodded once. “Yeah.” He glanced back at the city. “I need to get going myself.” He winked. “I do my best work at night.”  
Aestith’s stomach clenched. “I’m sure you do.”

Arcedi turned. Aestith watched him go. The pale drow gathered his hair as he walked and tied it back, then stuffed it into a cloak, which he pulled up over his hair. Aestith was left standing alone, more alone than he had felt in a long time. Even being near Arcedi had made him feel less isolated for a short time. Now, he was only aware of how alone he was. And how lonely.

He should have asked Arcedi to spend the night. Should have, and didn’t.

 


	18. Cover-Up

The guildmembers divided the gold from the brewery contract among themselves. Brass Monkey called over to Douglas, “Hey, Douglas! Why are we getting stiffed on this contract?”

Douglas lifted his head and stared at the group flatly. “You were paid to solve the problem at the brewery. When he sent the contractors into the new basement you uncovered, they found a nest of fire beetles, so you didn’t actually clear it, did you?”

They looked at one another. “Yeah, but the heat from the furnaces isn’t spoiling the beer anymore, and that’s what he wanted,” Deekin said.

“We completed that contract  _ to the letter _ ,” Kairon insisted.

“That should be our new catchphrase,” Dee commented.

“To the letter?” Tim said.

Aestith nodded. “Makes sense. Blight on your crops? Burn the crops. No more blight.”

Eilora finished, “To the letter.”

Douglas stared off into some middle distance as he contemplated his life choices. The others around the table nodded in agreement with Aestith’s statement before they collected their gold. “Off to court?” Eilora reminded them.

The court battle itself was uninteresting to Aestith. There was a great deal of arguing, but in the end, the contract was a simple one and without a great deal of to-do. The judge ruled in favor of the guild, and the original contractor forfeited property instead of the offered gold, because he didn’t have it.

The rest of the day was thus tied up in further court fees and details of the deed.

“What do we want to do with it?” Dee said.

Monkey frowned at the deed; he misliked his name on paperwork. “We could try to sell it.”

“Let’s at least look at it first,” Tim said. They didn’t arrive there until well after dark, and night, for most of the party, was not the time to see this place.

“It looks like something out of a haunted house story,” Eilora said flatly.

“Well, I can see why he didn’t put up much fight about keeping it,” Aestith sighed.

Monkey’s shoulders drooped. “We’re not going to get anything trying to sell it.”

“Let’s look inside,” Tim said, ever cheerful.

“I think I’ll take my apprentice home,” Deekin said slowly.

Aestith had almost forgotten about his apprentice. The boy had been unusually quiet beyond the occasional shriek after attacked him. Kairon scratched his goatee. “What’s the kid’s name again?”

“It’s—” the boy tried to say.

“Be ready!” Monkey yelled with a swing of his cutlass. The boy dove backwards to avoid the blade, his eyes as large as discs.

“It’s Jules or Gil or something,” Aestith said.

“Right. Hey, Gil, you want to see the inside of the haunted house, right?”

The kid sniffed, and seemed to resent this treatment, but by now had learned better than to complain about it. The boy eyed the haunted house and looked at Kairon and Aestith. “No.”

“Oh, c’mon, Gil, it’ll be fun,” Dee said. “There are probably no ghosts or demons at all.”

The boy cringed and his eyes opened with a slow dawning of realization that the group had, in fact, renamed him. “But my name isn’t—”

Deekin’s scaly hand landed on Gil’s thin shoulder. “Come on, Gil. You’re up past your bedtime.”

“But my name is Gullian!”

“Isn’t that nice? Everyone likes you so much they gave you a nickname.”

“But—”

Deekin shoved and poked Gil down the street. The house, of course, wasn’t demon-infested until Kairon stepped into it. As for a haunting, the house was free of spirits, but it did look like something anguished and tormented.

“Well. We could just get rid of it,” Monkey said again.

Eilora suggested, “We could fix it and then try to sell it. That might be easier than trying to split it between all of us.”

Kairon looked over the bar. Aestith cringed every time he stepped, for each footfall made the floorboards creak as if they might break. “But it’s a pub!” He whirled to look at them. “We could own a tavern.” He spread his arms. “Guys, this is our retirement plan.”

They looked around the room, at the stains, the cobwebs, the broken furniture. There was a musty smell that hung in the air. “Do we really have the money to renovate this place?” Aestith said.

Kairon reached into his breastplate. The metal clanged and echoed. He tossed a heavy purse onto a table so covered in dust that it plumed where he dropped it. “Yes we do.”

They didn’t begin the task until the next day, when Kairon had enthusiastically gotten contractors and carpenters out to the house. When Aestith arrived, the tiefling was already there, on a wooden table outside. Aestith sat beside him, and as the others arrived, they looked over the blueprint to the house, making plans to install a dumbwaiter, to knock down a wall here or install walls there. 

The owners debated what they would like to do with the place. It had used to be some kind of inn and tavern, though none of them seemed too keen on it. Aestith suggested converting it into a brothel, half-expecting everyone to immediately shut that down, but they actually debated it. They also considered just having it be a house, but Kairon kept insisting that it was a retirement plan and they needed to invest in it.

The end result was that they named the inn “The Traveler’s Club”, which was just as much based on the theme of the brothel as well as that they were all adventurers. Roles almost naturally fell upon them, rooms were divided out, locks and keys were forged. Aestith somehow acquired the old library room with the only door to the tower.

Some of them were more involved in the renovations than others, but most of the group didn’t leave the city during the construction. Aestith, for his part, had too much to do to prepare to move to go out adventuring. He saw Arcedi on occasion, and used the opportunities to, very gently, explain Drow culture and religion to him. He also began teaching the other Undercommon, which Arcedi took to surprisingly well.

Arcedi was always interested in these discussions, but Aestith quickly found that he actually preferred to speak to Arcedi instead of listen to Arcedi. Arcedi may be a drow, but in many ways, he was very  _ fae _ . It wasn’t his fault; he had been raised a moon elf and believed he was most of his life. The result was nothing short of obnoxious. Arcedi was prone to acts of whimsy and silliness that no drow would ever partake in, which sometimes caused some concern that this was cultural and not innate.

Arcedi also refused to admit, in any official capacity, what he was. He didn’t seem afraid of it, nor did he seem in denial or against it; he merely, for whatever evasive reason, refused to say he was a drow out loud.

One thing that was innate with Arcedi, however, and it may have only been that he had been raised a moon elf, was that he was automatically respectful toward Aestith, bordering on subservient. Aestith at first only asked him for small favors, or asked him to watch things for him while Arcedi wandered about the city, as he asked of Adam. Arcedi told Aestith once that he “only had to ask”. The tilt of Arcedi’s head and the low tone of his voice implied things that made Aestith squirm, but he refused to give in to his base urges. What would come of it? What would Arcedi think if he saw Aestith? And, worse, what would he do or say?

He could do with Arcedi what he did with the others had been with. Tie him up and blindfold him, ride him to completion. Arcedi would let him, and Aestith could be left longing to be touched and held. He didn’t take Arcedi’s offer.

#

After the construction, Aestith slowly packed his things from the warehouse basement and transported them in boxes to the guildhall, one at a time, until everyone else was ready to move. He hadn’t seen Arcedi in several days, but he was mostly unconcerned. He left a note with Douglas, and they moved in to the brothel.

Aestith really only brought his lab equipment, the shrine, and the bloodmoss. Everything else he purchased new, including some clothing. He had the only key to his laboratory, which he kept on his person. He also had to keep a copy of the deed on him at all times, because the guards liked to stop him when they saw him in the nicer part of town.

Eilora had little real interest in running the brothel, beyond that it did well. Deekin was mostly interested in training Gil and performing. Monkey disappeared before renovations were even complete, but they left a room for him. The roles of the brothel seemed to otherwise fall into place. Tim balanced the books with an obsessive attention, Kairon took care of most of the hiring, and Aestith began creating and placing ads.

They had an exclusive “soft” opening of the brothel after hirings, wherein they had a small party and invited guests. Most of the sales were from beverages, though one of the female courtesans, Thistle, was rented for an hour in one of the suites.

The evening started off slow but steady enough. Aestith quickly found himself running interference with the wealthier invited patrons when he realized that his cohorts interacted with clients the way that they interacted with one another, which simply wouldn’t do. He was busy enough entertaining and balancing these guests when a nearby barkeep shuffled in. He was dressed well enough as if effort had been made, but somehow sleazy and balding.

He scoffed at the drinks and the food. Aestith sent the other female courtesan to flirt with him, but he turned up his nose at the tiefling. Kairon disliked this and offered to show the man a private tour. He invited Tim along. Aestith learned later that Kairon had stealthily poked the barkeep, Emerick, with a sleep bolt and put him in the cheapest room, the Luskan Rough and Tumble. He paid the tiefling courtesan, Flareglow, to stay in the room with him and pretend that Emerick had drunk himself silly and got a room with her. To add to this nonsense, he poured some cheap liquor on Emerick. Aestith made faces and mumbled about the cost of the sheets as they counted out the night’s earnings.

They sent the remaining courtesans home, had the halfling maid Hogpen clean up the used suite, and closed shop.

Aestith wandered upstairs. By some stroke of luck, the washroom connected directly to his quarters, and was shared with only Monkey. Since Monkey was still missing in action, he had it to himself. He hadn’t been in a real tub in so long he could scarcely wait to climb into it. He spared nothing, pouring soap into it to create frothy bubbles. He brushed out his hair and reclined to his neck in the tub, a picture of perfect contentment.

Steam fogged the mirror in the room. The low light from the sphere behind him just illuminated the room enough to read, and spoil his infrared, which was something Aestith had to compromise. He soaked up to his neck in the bath, his hand raised above a thick swathe of white bubbles. The water was scented, not the flowery odors that surfacers liked so much, but musk and amber. His hair was pinned and fastened in a high bun, with the intention of washing it later.

A bottle of wine sat on the short table beside the bath, next to a glass nearly drained. The bottle itself held less than half its original liquid. Sometimes, Aestith told himself that he needed to stop drinking--just as soon as his life stopped being so stressful, which never ceased to amuse him. He prayed his life was never less stressful. If he lived peacefully, he would be displeasing Lolth.  _ That _ brought him all the peace he needed.

His hand slid from the hot water, covered in bubbles, and reached for the glass. He pressed it to his lips, and stopped. He shifted in the water, peering past the open door to his quarters. Then he sighed and took a sip of the wine. He said, eyes on the book, “You know, it’s rather impolite to enter a room without knocking.”

“I wasn’t exactly anticipating you being in the bath,” Arcedi said, without even the grace to be sheepish.

Aestith raised an eyebrow and glanced toward him. “Indeed. You know, it is customary to apologize when you interrupt someone. Particularly if they are bathing.”

Arcedi tilted his head, a wisp of a smile about his lips. “Then I suppose I must make an apology.” He stalked through Aestith’s quarters to the bath and bowed his head. “I apologize.”

Aestith rolled his eyes. “Indeed.” The glass clinked as he set it down.

“I didn’t mean to intrude on your bath, though I couldn’t have anticipated the washroom door being open.”

The cleric set the book aside and twisted to look at Arcedi with narrowed eyes, his breasts just above the lip of the tub. He noticed Arcedi’s eyes linger. “I trust I locked that door.”

“You probably did.”

“Look, love, you can either leave, or you can climb into this bath with me, but don’t hover in the doorway like that.”

Arcedi tossed whatever he had been delivering this time aside and reached for the buckles on his bandoleer. Aestith had not expected such a reaction. He said, “Arcedi.” He hesitated, then sighed. “You’re not getting from me what you might expect.”

He tilted his head. “Didn’t you just invite me in? Or are we literally just going to wash our hair?”

Aestith smiled, but it faded quickly. “Ah, that is…” He shook his head. “This is easier if I just show you.” Aestith gripped the sides of the tub, braced himself more for the other’s reaction than for leverage, and lifted himself from the water. Soap bubbles clung to his dark skin. In case it obscured the other’s infrared, he lifted his palm and the little orbs of light floated about Aestith. It left little to the imagination.

Arcedi, for his part, seemed unperturbed, even interested. “Lovey, that only makes you more interesting.” He tilted his head. “But I thought male drow weren’t allowed to be clerics.”

Aestith’s lips curved into a dissatisfied frown. “I have a woman’s sexual parts too. And breasts. In terms of flesh, I’m more female than male.”

Arcedi’s lips parted, drinking in Aestith’s form. Systematically, he turned toward the vanity. Aestith sunk into the water. Arcedi removed the bandoleer and slung it over the chair. His clothes, he piled into a heap, and he looked back at Aestith. The purple, blue, and black tattoo that covered him like some kind of horrid bruise, swept from his eye to his ankle and curved partway down one arm.

All Aestith had ever seen of what the night sky looked like to other races was over Arcedi’s albino-pale body. Arcedi slipped into the water, and waited, subservient. Aestith slid over him, crawling up his torso to push his lips against the other.

Aestith couldn’t have known it, but from that moment, Arcedi was his to command. Arcedi wouldn’t have said it was because Aestith was a good lay. It wasn’t Aestith’s face, for Aestith looked quite androgynous, and was pretty but not beautiful. To Arcedi, Aestith was an enigma. Aestith represented a sort of unity that Arcedi longed for, and a faith that Arcedi had never before found. Aestith was a tie to a culture that Arcedi felt a kinship for. It wasn’t love, for neither of them were quite capable of such an emotion, but it was lust and a sort of devotion on Arcedi’s part.

After their initial embrace, Arcedi would have left had Aestith told him to, would have likely left without his leave, but Aestith asked him to stay, hinted at a second round, which there certainly was.

Arcedi dressed and Aestith, wrapped in a robe, picked the twine off the package the other had dropped off.

“Guard schedules, routes, addresses, and a couple letters and receipts I thought you might find interesting,” Arcedi said.

“Try again in Undercommon,” Aestith said. Arcedi paused, mulled over the response, then repeated it. Aestith smiled. “You’re getting much better.” He looked up. “And try to sign it.”

Arcedi made a face, made a rude gesture that made Aestith laugh, and signed it out. Aestith made the odd correction here and there, but Arcedi seemed to grasp it overall. Signing seemed to come more naturally to Arcedi, for that matter, but that made sense, given his background. He liked to dance and move, communicating so much with his body already. It was a shame he hadn’t been born into it.

But, such was Lolth’s ways. If Arcedi had been born somewhere in the Underdark, he wouldn’t be here, delivering Aestith information.

Arcedi lifted one of the thick curtains to the side. Even the meager light from the street was blinding and both flinched. Arcedi glanced back at Aestith, maybe only to give his eyes time to adjust. “So. Can I come back tomorrow?”

Aestith considered what they were doing tomorrow. “No. It’s opening day, so I can’t.” He threaded his lower lip through his teeth and considered closing that curtain and dragging Arcedi back to bed. “What about the night after?”

He tilted his head. “Sure.”

Aestith never asked him if he wanted to use the door; he didn’t think Arcedi would want to anyway. Aestith leaned against the writing desk and watched the pale drow climb nimbly out of the window into the alley. He went to the curtain in time to see the other drop the last few feet, then slink away in the dark. Aestith shut the window and latched it, knowing full well that a locked window would never stop Arcedi. He was glad of it.

#

Aestith studied the notes and letters with interest, mulled over the receipts. In the morning, he traveled down to the docks to find Adam. Adam couldn’t read, but Aestith told him some of the information anyway, then asked him to tail a particular noble.

“I suspect an affair,” Aestith added.

Adam, not quite understanding the implications of this, nodded absently and took the candy. His filthy hair almost obscured a deep purple bruise on one side of his face. He gave Aestith a scrap of hide holding coins. Aestith tilted his head. “Adam, did you get into a fight?”

“No,” he said defensively, then frowned. “I broke into someone’s house.”

“And?”

He made a face. “Well, I got caught.”

“But not by the guard, so that’s good.” Aestith smiled reassuringly. “Did you go at night?”

“Yeah! I’m not stupid.”

Aestith shook his head. “Most people are home at night. But single men and women work during the day, and no one is home. Married couples, without kids, usually have more money, but sometimes one of them is at home in the day, so act appropriately.” Aestith reached into his own purse and gave the boy a small sum, dropping the given coins in as he did. “Take this, and buy yourself some clothes. Middle class, so you don’t look too out of place in the daytime. Clean up. You’ll want the houses on corners, because they have fewer neighbors.”

He absorbed all of this with wide eyes, nodding along as Aestith spoke. He shoved the coins into his pocket. “Right. I’ll try that.”

“I know. Best of luck.” Aestith turned from him. He didn’t doubt that some people wouldn’t like what he was doing, that it was even illegal. Adam, however, didn’t seem to mind. Fact of the matter, the kid would probably be doing much the same anyway, and might even be worse off. He certainly seemed to be in better shape since Aestith had met him.

Aestith didn’t have anything in particular in mind for the noble, but he liked having the information. Secrets were expensive.

Aestith arrived back in the brothel with plenty of time to clean up and change, then do any last-minute preparations. He asked the others how things had gone with Emerick, as he had been in his room all that morning. They told him that Emerick had left after paying his tab and seemed pissy as all hell.

Deekin and Tim had gone out advertising, and everyone was hopeful for the first day, which of course meant that things were slow. It picked up briefly, two of the courtesans were even selected. Unfortunately, Tim seemed to have advertised the brothel badly, and drew in a crowd of boozers that were wrong for this style of bar.

The owners tried to run interference with them as much as possible. It was almost relieving when Emerick showed up, scoffed at all the brews, and invited the three to his tavern. They cheered and followed him out. He smirked. Aestith and his co-owners glowered.

“Yeah, fuck that guy,” Dee said.

Even Eilora nodded in agreement. After their clients left, and the hour grew late enough to send the courtesans home, they counted out the night’s earnings, dismally low for an opening night.

Kairon slammed the door closed behind him. “So apparently Emerick has been talking shit about our business.”

“What?” Deekin said.

He practically simmered in rage. “Mm-hmm.”

Eilora threw up her hands. “What is this guy’s deal? We aren’t even in the same business as he is.”

Dee’s lips twisted into a frown. She glanced at Eilora. “Let’s see if we can mess with him. You in?”

To Aestith’s surprise, Eilora agreed, and the pair hurried out. Aestith kind of wanted to go himself, to watch if nothing else, but the pair were far more stealthy than he, so he stayed behind, but out of curiosity, waited up for them to return. Kairon and Deekin went to bed. Tim remained a while longer as he balanced the books, then retired himself. Eilora and Dee arrived half an hour later. Aestith had been meditating.

“How’d it go?” he said.

Dee sighed. “Kinda shit. We couldn’t get in.”

“Oh.” Aestith frowned, disappointed.

He went up the stairs to his room. Eilora went past him to her attic room. Dee had a room in the basement, because she liked being close to the pantry. 

The sound of shattering glass made Aestith jump. He hadn’t even had time to change. He grabbed his sword and rushed to the second floor. He nearly collided with Dee, and the two ran into the Waterdeep Suite.

Shattered glass spread on the floor of the room. Aestith disliked glass on principle, at night anyway. In the daylight, it wasn’t so bad, even practical, but once it was dark and he relied on infrared, the glass blocked his vision like a brick wall. Glass was ordinarily too cold for him to see through; he saw right through the shattered window.

Dee held a hand out, and an eldritch wind assaulted the rock-thrower. Aestith saw his life flare, a red-hot beacon, then cool as the man fell. The assailant’s compatriot turned and ran, screaming. Aestith looked at her. “What the fuck?” he demanded, then ran to the door downstairs. Kairon, Tim, and Eilora ran down shortly after, stopping only for brief words with Dee. Aestith was the first at the body.

“Shit, he’s dead,” Aestith hissed.

“I didn’t know!” Dee wailed.

“What did you think would happen?” 

Dee stared at Aestith. 

Aestith’s teeth ground. “Well, now what? We have a witness out there.”

Tim’s eyes went distant, then he shook himself. “Dead. My imp got him.”

Aestith twitched. “What the fuck?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. A broken window was worth not covering up murders, especially when they would have to pay for the window anyway. He took a deep breath. “We have to cut out their tongues, to keep a cleric from reviving them enough to talk. And dump the bodies.”

“What?” Eilora said.

“We don’t have time to argue,” Aestith snapped. “Someone could have already found them.” He bent to the corpse and removed a knife. “Unless you think you can keep yourself out of prison.” He looked at Dee, Kairon, and Tim. He swallowed. The laboratory. He would have to destroy it if they refused to cover this up. A drow would be immediately suspicious. Hell, they may even pin both murders on him regardless of if he even had anything to do with it. “Go, now.”

Tim tilted his head at it. “My imp is watching the other one, but he got pretty far.”

Aestith nodded. “We have to get there before anyone else does.”

The warlock said, “Someone found it.”

Aestith wanted to slap him. He poured his annoyance and irritation into a spell to raise the dead instead. The zombie shambled upright, waiting Aestith’s command. Aestith handed him the slice of his tongue and told the zombie to eat it. It did. Aestith glared at Tim, then looked at Kairon. “Do you still have that wagon you rented earlier?”

“Yeah.”

“We may need it. Get Deekin.”

They quickly workshopped a plan, Tim giving constant updates as they made their way there. Kairon handed Aestith his tabard of Helm--he didn’t think Kairon was really a paladin of Helm. Deekin gave Aestith his hat with the slightest reluctance. Dee marched along beside Aestith. A cold feeling welled in his stomach. This was incredibly foolish and he hated himself for even being a part of it.

Dee and Aestith waited around the corner for the cart to trundle toward the body. There was a cleric already there with four guards, exactly as Tim had relayed. Kairon drove the carriage while Tim and Deekin played loudly beside him. Cakecake and Eilora waited inside in case the worst happened.

Dee peeked around the corner and her eyes widened in horror. She hissed, “Aestith, that is a cleric of Helm.”

His fingers clenched. They had decided that Aestith should do this, not because he was as good at lying as Deekin, but because he was actually a cleric. He looked down at the tabard, then remembered Deekin’s hat. He couldn’t tell any difference once he used it, but he whispered, “How is this?”

Dee looked him up and down. Blessedly, she did not comment on the human part of the guise. “What temple is that to?”

“Corellon.” He shook his head. “Let’s go.”

Dee did her best to almost hide behind him as he walked, an exercise in futility even for a halfling; Aestith was thin. The wagon had halted at the intersection the body was at. The dull grey light of pre-dawn inched back the night’s shadows. A guard was speaking to Kairon.

Aestith approached the scene and a guard walked up to him with a hand out. The guard said, “Sorry, ma’am. Crime investigation in progress.”

Aestith peered around the man. “Oh, my. Is that a body? Can I look?”

The guard frowned. “What? No. Crime scene.” He repeated this as if he had to convince himself.

Aestith blinked up at him. With a hand behind his back, he motioned at Dee. “I think you misunderstand me, sir. I’m a cleric. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Afraid not. We have it under control.”

Aestith nodded. His throat felt dry. Dee crept closer as the guards moved the body onto a stretcher under the cleric’s supervision. “I’m sure you do. Is there a dangerous murdererer on the loose? Should I be concerned for my safety?”

The guard shook his head, but he touched his sword as he spoke. “No need to be concerned. The guard has everything well in hand.”

“Yes, of course.” Aestith desperately tried to think of something to say. He must have paused for too long, because the guard bid him farewell and started to turn. Aestith swayed, and grabbed the guard’s arm. He braced himself against the guard’s armor and used his meager weight to pivot the guard back toward him. He pretended to stumble backwards. “Sorry, I must have tripped.”

The guard stared at Aestith flatly. “Ma’am, are you drunk?” He reached for a small booklet on his belt. “Public intoxication is a crime in Waterdeep. If you don’t leave, I’m going to have to give you a citation.”

Dee opened the wagon. Aestith cleared his throat noisily. “Oh, I’m not drunk,” he said, projecting his voice more loudly than he needed to. “Haven’t touched a drop all evening, sir.”

“Ma’am, I must insist you vacate the premises. This is a crime scene.”

Dee clambered into the wagon. Aestith said, “Oh, well, I suppose, if you insist. Good luck with your investigations, sir!”

“Indeed. Off with you now.”

The door shut. Aestith about-faced and hurried away. He ducked into an alley. The disguise fell with relief and he peeked back around the corner. They were loading the body and Kairon had turned his wagon around.

Aestith swore, and tailed the wagon. He had to use the hat multiple times, almost lost them once, and was horrified to find that Dee still hadn’t managed to escape, and, worse, they were at the temple of Helm.

He watched helplessly from around a street vendor’s stall as the wagon door opened. They moved inside, but by their unhurried stance, they still had not seen Dee. They gingerly removed the body. Among the movement, Aestith saw a very small, cloaked figure drop from the wagon and scamper away. She may have gone unnoticed, but the guard Aestith had spoken to earlier turned his head, and saw her.

“Stop!” he yelled. Dee did not stop. She had downed a potion that decreased her already diminutive size, and was running as fast as her tiny legs could take her. She had a head start on the guard, but at her size, she could only run so far and so fast; the guard was gaining. Dee ducked and wove around people’s legs, between carts, squeezed around crates of produce. Aestith considered, touched the hat and stepped out from behind the stall.

In his best impersonation of a farmer’s wife, he yelled, “Demon!” He pointed dramatically in the opposite direction Dee had gone. A few passersby looked. The guard paid his theatrics no heed. As Dee passed close to Aestith, he reached down and scooped her up like a cat with a mouse. The guard’s gaze shifted to Aestith.

Aestith ran.

Fear and hatred--of Dee in particular at the moment--powered his steps. He pushed and shoved through the crowd, but the crowd parted for the guard, and only seemed to watch Aestith. He turned his hand toward the guard, and everything went black.

“What did you do?” Dee cried.

“Shut up,” Aestith suggested, weaving through the crowd of suddenly red-hot bodies, no longer in color and depth to him, but shades of warmth and cold. The guard stopped, listened, followed Aestith. The guard was yelling now, and more would be upon them soon.

Aestith, still swathed in the darkness, shifted to another disguise, and stepped into the throng of people. He cleared his throat and joined the chorus of people exclaiming surprise at the dark. The darkness was centered on the guard, and it moved, calculated, toward Aestith.

That hadn’t worked.

He swore, and wove his way around the people and the market stalls, trying not to run, but his fast walk was nearly a run. The dark moved toward him.

What else could he do? All of his spells were geared towards healing or death. He looked out at the river, and cast one more spell. He turned with a burst of speed and leapt. He came down hard, on the water. The river flowed under his boots, but he remained on top of it. He dashed down the river, trying not to think about how insane this was, ran up the other bank, donned a different disguise, and dropped, exhausted, into an alley. He glowered at Dee.

“You’re welcome,” he said sourly.

She smiled, as if she were pleased with herself. “I cut out the tongue.”

“What did you do with it?”

“Oh, I dropped it in the water while you were running.”

He sighed in relief. “Fuck, this whole thing was stupid.” He shook his head. “In the future, please don’t kill vandals. We’re going to have to pay to fix that window anyway, but at least if we had called the guard instead of murder them all immediately, we wouldn’t have to clean up a murder.”

Dee shrugged sheepishly. “I mean, we get attacked on the regular all the time anyway.”

“Not usually in town!” he complained.

Because of her impossibly small size, and that she was stuck like that for a while, he carried her back to the Traveler’s Club. He dropped Deekin’s hat on the table in front of him and shrugged out of the tabard. He shoved it toward Kairon. Dee scampered off somewhere and Aestith dropped into an empty chair.

“So that went well, I take it?” Deekin inquired.

Aestith made a face. “About as one might expect, but Dee cut out the tongue and neither of us were caught. Did you get a citation, Kairon?”

He gave a noncommittal shrug. “A warning.”

Eilora shook her head sadly from side to side. “What has my life become?”

Kairon cast her a condescending grin. “Who do you hang out with?”

“I’m going to bed,” she announced. Cakecake trotted beside her up the stairs.

Aestith may have snickered at Eilora’s plight, but he often wondered the same thing. She may have wondered that because she had spent all of last night helping to cover up a murder of mostly innocent civilians, but Aestith asked the same question when he was just trying to live his life.

Slowly, each of them dispersed to their rooms. Stoutbrew showed up to work early to get ready to open. Hogpen scurried about doing any last-minute cleaning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for commenting. I may not always reply, but I do enjoy reading your thoughts on developments and such!


	19. Errands

Aestith stared at himself in the mirror. His hand trembled only a little and he set the brush down. He had been practicing for a while, but had never been quite bold enough to actually wear it; his normally charcoal lips were a dark red. He pursed his lips at the mirror, made a pouty face, wondered if he shouldn’t just wash it off again. He looked at the other cosmetics on the counter, the bookmarked softcover about makeup. He had paced around the store, quietly wondering how he could avoid the shopgirl seeing the cover. Fortunately, some belligerent old woman had come in to complain, and Aestith had pocketed it while the owner was distracted.

Not all of it could apply to him, of course, and he’d never find something that matched his skin tone, but he thought he had actually done pretty well with what he had. The lips, of course, a touch of color in his cheeks, his eyes. Maybe it was too much, all at once. Maybe if he just wore the red lips, and washed off the rest.

His stomach tightened. He wished he had someone he could ask. Arcedi? He made a sour face. Arcedi wouldn’t understand it. Aestith liked the pale drow well enough, or maybe just liked proselytizing at him and lusting after him, but he could really only bear to be near the other for a couple of hours at a time. Arcedi was overbearing and often obnoxious, which was a downright shame.

Maybe he could just ask… He ran through a mental tally of his co-owners before he dismissed the idea. One of the courtesans, perhaps.

A knock at the door made him look up. An old, familiar knot of anxiety balled in his stomach. He walked from the washroom, through his bedroom, to the door. He opened it. “Yes?”

Hogpen seemed anxious. “There’s…” She seemed to struggle for a moment. “There’s someone downstairs asking to see one of the owners.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Can’t one of the others see to it?”

She made a face. “Yes, but… It’s a drow.”

He blinked. A thousand questions raced through his head, half in trepidation. His sisters knew where he was. He hadn’t made much effort to hide himself, as far as his name went. What if they had sent someone? It couldn’t be Arcedi; he would have stubbornly insisted he was a moon elf--and he would have come in through the window! “So?”

She squirmed. “Well, I said I’d check if you’re available, and you’re here. They said they’d wait.”

He frowned. “Of course. I’ll be right down.”

She nodded and turned to leave with a relieved sigh.

“Uh, actually. Hogpen?” he said. She turned back. He struggled, made a face, and smiled sheepishly. He whispered, “Does my makeup look stupid?”  
She covered her mouth with a hand to keep from laughing, which did nothing to assure him of his appearance. “I’m sorry, it’s just… It’s the way you asked. You look great.” Then she smiled coyly. “You weren’t expecting someone, were you?”  
He thought of Arcedi. Aestith felt heat rise to his face, and was terribly glad that she couldn’t see in infrared. “No. Just… experimenting with makeup. Please, tell them I’ll be right down.”

He shut the door and laced his boots before he made his way downstairs. He was nervous when he walked down, terrified that he actually looked ridiculous and Hogpen was just too polite to her new boss, or too terrified of that new boss being a drow, to tell the truth.

He cast a glance around the bottom floor, and saw the drow seated at a table. Aestith didn’t know him, but his hair was still white, and cut short. He looked up as Aestith approached, and a lazy, slow smile spread over his lips, as if he were somehow pleased to see Aestith. In the cleric’s experience, this was rarely a good thing.

Regardless, Aestith sat down across from him, and crossed his ankles. He returned the smile, his back straight, chin lifted. “I understand that you requested to see one of the owners. I’m Aestith. To whom do I owe the pleasure?”

His gaze ran over Aestith’s features and his amber-colored eyes seemed to soften, even when his spine went rigid. Aestith wondered how long he had been on the surface, how long since he had seen a female drow. The male said, “Zanisernix.” He tilted his head slightly. “I… must admit, you have me at a bit of a disadvantage. I wasn’t expecting a drow.”

Aestith kept the smile on his face. No drow would admit to that. The other knew perfectly well that there was a drow owner. He would have to ask Hogpen if Zanisernix had requested Aestith specifically. The cleric said, “Of course not. Why would you? So, what brings you here?”

His gaze lingered briefly, then his eyes flicked away. “I wanted to know if you’d be interested in a business opportunity.” He looked past Aestith, at the bar. “Perhaps somewhere more private?”

Aestith showed him up the stairs and they sat down in one of the alcoves. Aestith, not really particularly given to pleasantries, waited for the other to get to the point.

He did, in Undercommon. “A servant from a noble house is delivering love letters between the house and a temple.” He tilted his head. “A Desmaduke temple.”

Aestith was silent for a moment as he mentally flipped through any literature he had read on the deity, but couldn’t recall. There were  _ so many _ surface deities. He tilted his head. “Go on.”

He nodded. “Desmaduke explicitly forbids such carnal acts.” The other smiled, as if amused that a deity demanded such sacrifice. Zanisernix’s teeth were like black spinels, naturally glossier than Aestith’s common white teeth. He had probably come from a noble house too. His bones would be just as black.

Aestith inclined his head. “You want the letters.”

“Yes.”

Aestith watched him for a moment, trying to judge what he was about. “Why can’t you do it?”

“I’m asking you.”

The phrase told Aestith more than if the other had actually answered. Zanisernix could probably do it himself, but had asked Aestith, which meant he wanted something else and was testing Aestith. It was a common tactic; if you ask someone for a small favor, they were more likely to do the larger favor later. This was merely a stepping stone. “Of course, but why, might I ask, are you interested?”

A slow blink covered his yellow eyes. “Chaos.”

Aestith smiled. Any chance to please Lolth was all Aestith truly required. “Perhaps.” He uncrossed his ankles and inspected his nails. Could this be the same noble house Aestith suspected of having an affair? “Perhaps I’ll have time for this. Tell me a bit more about the noble? What makes you think they’re love letters?”

He watched Aestith carefully. “They’re delivered every third day to a drop point. If they aren’t love letters, they’re more interesting.”

Aestith was silent a moment. He considered his schedule for the day. “Are they being dropped soon?”

“This evening.”

He looked up. “I’ll have a look. Tell me what you know.”

He explained the servant’s livery, the drop point, then slid two sealed letters across the table. Aestith knew at a glance that it was a decoy, so neither the noble nor the paladin would immediately suspect. Aestith saw him out, all the while considering his plans. He consulted a map of the city, and in a bookcase in the common room, there happened to be a book about how to identify trees and other surface foliage. Probably from the wood elf.

Tim sat at a table in the common room, balancing the accounting ledger. His imp perched on his shoulder.

“Tim? Can I borrow your imp?”

Tim looked up. “Oh, Impy really only does what I tell him to. He’s a fiend.” He shrugged noncommittally and looked back at the ledger.

The imp’s tail swished in curiosity. Aestith said, “Of course.” He strolled over to Tim’s table, casting a shadow over the ledger. Aestith smiled. “Tim. I’ll pay you twenty gold to use Impy to pick up something.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed, then he shrugged. “Impy, go with Aestith. Do what she says.”

Impy snorted indignantly, but fluttered off of Tim’s shoulder to land on the windowsill by the door.

“Wonderful.” Aestith stacked ten gold next to Tim. “I’ll bring the rest later.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Mhm.”

Aestith opened the door. The imp sailed out of the door, turning invisible as he passed. Aestith felt it alight on his shoulder when he reached the street.

He walked to the Castle Ward and found the noble’s house. Of course, he wasn’t fortunate enough to see a suspicious servant, but he followed the road from the house all the way to the temple looking for one. The drops didn’t occur at any specific time, probably because the servant had a schedule of their own to adhere to. The paladin, too, had a schedule, and picked it up just before supper though, so Aestith had to intercept it beforehand. Which is why the imp would be useful. 

The drop point was at a park nearby the temple. Off the path, toward the pond, there was a little hollow in an oak tree. Aestith had had to find a picture of one to see what that was. It took him several minutes to find the right pond, and a bit longer to coordinate which side it was supposed to be on--he had trouble with cardinal directions.

The tree stood on the other side of the pond. His eyes shifted toward the imp, despite that he couldn’t see it. “Imp, fly over to that tree and look for a hollow. If there’s a letter inside, tell me.”

The imp heaved a sigh and took off of Aestith’s shoulder. Aestith could hear a faint flap of leathery wings, then waited while the imp looked. The task took three minutes, and it came back. It said there wasn’t anything in the hollow. Aestith had suspected as much. If he stayed here, the servant would never approach the hollow. Aestith moved away, and found an empty park bench. The imp rested on his shoulder, invisible and probably bored. Aestith removed the novella from his pocket and flipped it open. He liked his odd collection of terrible romance novels--the worse they were written, the better--but what he really liked was a good horror novel. Something subtly creepy, but not with a lot of gore because that reminded him too much of real life. He had not had time to sit down and read this one yet, so he did not especially mind having some time by himself to finish it. Sometimes, someone stared, or a couple walking by quickened their step. Once or twice, a child pointed, but their minders kept them away, allowing Aestith to read in peace.

He sent the imp to check the tree about every twenty minutes or so. He was just about to reach the penultimate chapter when the imp came back and whispered, “There’s something there.”

Aestith was almost annoyed, but he finished the paragraph he was on and flipped the book closed. He tucked it into his pocket and moved unhurriedly toward the pond. He pretended to watch the water for a time while a child threw rocks in on the other side, but his presence alone made the child run off. Aestith went over to the tree. The hollow was well above his head and he had to stand on tiptoe and could only just reach it. It wasn’t very deep, and he touched the paper with the tips of his fingers. He was too short to grab it.

He cursed. He could levitate to it, but that seemed wasteful. He remembered the imp and settled back on his feet. “Imp, fetch the letter from the hollow, if you please.”

“I don’t,” it said, but did it anyway. A letter seemed to float to Aestith. He plucked it from the imp. He looked at the two dummy letters. Which one had Zanisernix said was which? He looked for the seal on the letter, but of course there wasn’t one. He looked at the dummy letters. He should have kept them in a different pocket. He ran a thumb over the real letter and shoved it into his pocket with his book. He tested the quality of the paper of each letter, searching for differences.

He had said…

The ink! He pinched the letter so it squished partway open. He tilted his head to see the ink, then shoved that one into his opposite pocket. He double-checked the other, and then dropped the one with iron-gall ink into the hollow.

He wandered off to the market for a late lunch, did a bit of browsing, and came back to the park. He had the imp check to see if the letters had swapped. They hadn’t, so Aestith found another park bench, and finished the novella. He sent the imp out again. The imp took longer than he had the last time, but it came back.

“Swapped,” it said, its small talons digging into Aestith’s shoulder.

Aestith’s eyes narrowed. “What took so long?” he whispered, shielding the movement of his mouth with the open book.

The imp paused, as if weighing how much he actually had to tell Aestith, considering that Aestith was not its master. Its tail twitched against the drow’s back. “Paladin.”

He stilled. “Did it sense you?”

The imp huffed indignantly. “I saw him from the air.”

Aestith watched a couple pass, then said, “Are you certain? Paladins can be quite tricky.”

“Not trickier than an imp.”

“Certainly.” Aestith rose and put back the book. He checked both letters, then moved toward the drop point. He stopped, then sent the imp again, to be sure the paladin had moved away. The imp sighed, went to look, then returned with an affirmative.

Tim had only said that the imp had to obey Aestith, not that it couldn’t lie.

Still, Aestith wandered down to the pond. He used a spell to detect magic as he walked. The only things that he sensed were on himself, but the spell had a limited range. He wished there was something more he could do.

He stopped at the other end of the pond, and removed the letter. He handed it to the imp. “Swap this letter for the one in the tree.”

It grumbled, but flew off. Invisible, Aestith could only see the letter. The imp flew lazily, using the meager wind to carry it as much as it was able. The result was that the letter seemed to mostly float about the area, then zip up suddenly into the hollow, where it stuffed itself inside, then a second, nearly identical, letter was removed and it floated back to Aestith. He shoved that into his pocket.

“Thank you,” Aestith told the imp. It seemed to preen itself. Aestith walked away from the pond, feeling as if he was somehow getting away with something. He didn’t like it.

He checked the letters, then ducked behind a tree to peer at the ink and the writing. Aestith spent a lot of time staring at handwriting and reading. The wax was different, even if the paper was the same, and the writing was different than the dummy letters.

He shoved them back into his inner jacket pocket, and went back to the brothel in time for it to open.

Tim asked, “What were you doing all day?”

Aestith glanced at the imp, knowing that it was compelled to obey Tim. “Delivering letters.”

Tim shrugged, as if uninterested. “What did you need Impy for, then?”

Aestith said, “I couldn’t reach one of the letter slots.”

“I would have gone with you.”

He shook his head. “This is fine. I’m going to get ready for opening, if you don’t mind.”

After the brothel opened, Aestith found Hogpen in the kitchen. He said, “That drow that came in. Did he ask for me specifically?”  
She shook her head. “No. Just asked for one of the owners.”

And of course Hogpen had gotten Aestith. He couldn’t tell if she were lying or not.

Later in the evening, a human in a hat approached Aestith at the bar. “Were you successful?” Aestith recognized the voice as Zanisernix.

Aestith smiled, then glanced around the bar, full of patrons, his associates, the courtesans. His eyes flicked to the door and he signed,  _ Outside. _

The other nodded, drifted away from Aestith. He pretended to browse the menu, glance over the courtesans. He spoke briefly with one, seemed to lose interest, and wandered outside. Aestith left through the kitchen, went around the alley, and down the street.

The “human” cut into another alley. Aestith followed him. It was narrow, barely wide enough for one person. The disguise dropped as he turned around. Zanisernix signed,  _ Were you successful?  _ Out loud, “Did you see the match the other day?”

Aestith handed him the letters. He glanced them over and smiled. He shoved them into a pouch on his belt. To Aestith, he handed a satchel. It was heavier than he anticipated. Aestith dropped it into a pocket for later examination. Aloud, Aestith said, “Yes, but I left early. Who won?”

_ Would you like to do something else?  _ “Oh, I thought I saw you there.”

Aestith raised an eyebrow.  _ What do you have in mind?  _ “You should have paid me a visit. It’s not like I don’t stand out, you know.”

Zanisernix said,  _ There’s a reporter for the Gazette named Sartocia Sparrow. Get this to her desk.  _ “True. I’ll keep that in mind next time.”

He signed a few more short details. An old pleasure welled in Aestith’s chest. He missed this--being near other drow, someone who actually understood him. Arcedi tried, but Arcedi was so estranged from drow culture that Aestith wondered if he could ever properly teach him it.

They moved back into the street. Aestith strolled back to the Traveler’s Club, without any pretense that he hadn’t been gone. He mingled briefly, then stole away to his quarters. The money Zanisernix had given him was disproportionate to the job in Aestith’s favor.

He definitely wanted something else, and this was barely a stepping stone. Aestith wondered what the crux would be.

Arcedi arrived sometime after midnight, when things were winding down for the evening. Aestith opened his--locked--door and found Arcedi reading the titles on Aestith’s bookshelf. Arcedi flashed a smile. They spoke little and Arcedi left before dawn.

As for Sartocia, he wrote a quick ad for the brothel after breakfast and popped down to her newspaper firm. He asked the receptionist about placing ads and he was directed down a hallway. No one escorted him, and everyone he saw was busy at work and paid him little heed.

He walked past the room he had been directed to. Sartocia’s office was down at the end of the hall. Aestith checked the office opposite hers, but it was empty. He tried the door, surprised to find it unlocked. He slipped inside and shut it behind him. He blinked and the dark office was illuminated in infrared. Nothing magical, no obvious traps. It couldn’t be this easy, could it?

He glanced over her desk. There were stacks of notes and old newspaper clippings. A half-open drawer that couldn’t be closed because it was filled to bursting with office supplies. Aestith dropped the letter on the desk. Deed done.

He turned toward the door in time to hear a click. He stared at the door. The glass window, to infrared, might as well have been a part of the wall. He switched back to see through the glass. The door opposite Sartocia’s shut with another click. A light glowed inside. It would be impossible to open the door without the other seeing.

He looked at the windows. It was wide enough that he could slip through, right into the garbage. He made a face. He could try to wait it out, but how long until Sortocia came back?

He pinched the bridge of his nose. He was acting foolish and overdramatic. He strode to the door and opened it, and before the one across the hall could accuse him of snooping around, he knocked politely on their door. “Pardon me?” he called, in his meekest possible voice. “I think I missed Mister, ah, I think it was Mr. Verence’s office?”

The gnome at the desk sighed, directed him back down the hall. He walked back down, placed the ad with Verence, and left.

Aestith saw the paperboy delivering the next morning. After the boy had left, Aestith walked over to one of the neighbor’s houses and flipped briefly through the paper for his ad. He was pleased to see it present. He flipped again to the gossip. Sure enough, the story alluded to the affair. There were no names mentioned, and fewer details, but it would put both of them on edge. Aestith dropped the paper back where he had found it.

He should go see Adam. It had been a while. He looked for him briefly at the docks, couldn’t find him, so went to the orphanage. The boy was the same as he had left him, but he was able to attend the other children. He found Adam on his walk back through the docks. Adam had since acquired a coat that didn’t quite fit him. They did a brief candy and money exchange.

Aestith listened to the footfalls behind him. Arcedi sometimes stalked him for a while before he caught up to Aestith, mostly to ensure that Aestith was truly alone and not just lagging behind the guild members or something; Aestith had expressly forbidden Arcedi to appear around the guildhall, and the Traveler’s Club beyond Aestith’s quarters. Arcedi had never questioned it, but if he did, Aestith would tell him a variation of the truth, which was that Arcedi raised too many questions. Arcedi’s footfalls were lighter than that though. That was the sound of a boot.

Aestith turned and looked back. His shoulders relaxed by degrees. “Zanisernix. Don’t stalk me.”

He smiled and strolled right up to Aestith. All a human guise of lies. “I was on my way to see you.”

“Explains why you’ve been following me instead of just walking up to me.”

He shrugged. “It may have been easier to have this conversation in privacy. I wanted to ensure you were alone.”

The cleric’s eyes narrowed. “I have some time to spare. Would you prefer to meet me later, or should we discuss business now?”

He sighed, then glanced down one way, then another. He tilted his head and they walked toward the nearest bar. They sat down and Zanisernix ordered. He inspected a mug of ale, then looked at Aestith. “We appreciate what you did with the paper.”

_ We? _ Aestith considered. “It was simple enough.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “So you say.” A pause. “Could you accommodate a house guest for a few days?”

Aestith raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

He picked up the ale, made as if he had planned on drinking it, then thought better of it and set it back down. “Yes. He’ll be arriving tomorrow afternoon, and I’m afraid our accommodations are hasty as we only recently arrived ourselves, so are not properly furnished to safely secure him.”

“Ah. I see.” Aestith considered. “This houseguest. What are they visiting for?”

The other’s eyes slid slowly around the room, then settled again on Aestith. He looked past Aestith, not directly at Aestith’s face, but too long from home to remember to look down, or grown too arrogant. “He’ll be in town a few days. He just needs a place to stay. I’m afraid we fell a bit behind on our preparations and he arrived early.”

Aestith hated the human guise. It even hid his eye color, and the facial features seemed distorted. Not to mention that it was repulsive. He longed to knock the hat off of his head. He didn’t. He tried again, “What brings them to Waterdeep?”

“Business.”

Aestith was silent a long moment. “I suppose I can work something out.”

He smiled. Even the teeth were disguised. “Excellent. I’ll have him drop by this evening then. Do you have a room ready?”

Aestith considered the Skullport room in the basement with all of its toys and restraints, which amused him. Instead, he said, “Yes. In the attic, there’s a safe-room. It’s empty right now.”

“Perfect.”

Aestith almost wanted to say more, but he had some preparations to do. To his co-owners, he offered to pay them each a meager sum to use the room for three days. When they asked him why, he was nearly honest. “I’m having a guest over for a few days.”

“Don’t you have your own room?”

“I’m afraid that I need the open space in the storage room, unless you think I could borrow the Skullport room for a few days?”

That ended the discussion and for good measure, he brought up a few things from the Skullport room. They gave him their keys and he kept the master key with him.

In the evening, Tim conducted tours of the rooms, as he was wont to do if a guest seemed bored. Dee went with him, as he had three people on the tour. The fourth sat at the bar humming and hawing. The four of them had acted nothing short of suspicious since they got here. They acted like they were casing the place to rob it, and barely pretended that they weren’t.

Aestith wanted to just get Boartusk, the half-orc bouncer, to throw them out, but could think of little pretense beyond “I don’t like you” to do it. The man suggested a tour, and wanted specifically to see the Skullport room. Aestith volunteered to take him. The man looked about the room, but seemed to be studying the walls. He opened the trunk, peered in the cage. He looked at the door opposite the Skullport room. “What’s in there?”

“Employees only,” Aestith said.

“Yes, but what’s in it?”

“It’s for employees only,” Aestith repeated.

The man’s mouth drew into a tight, thin line. “I see.” He looked at the room again. “I think I’d like an hour here.”

Aestith nodded, not at all believing him. “Of course. Would you like to select your courtesan?”

“Oh, no. Whoever you send will be fine.”

Aestith raised an eyebrow. “Male or female?”

“Either.”

Aestith nodded once, smiling with gritted teeth. He used a Sending spell to summon one of the courtesans, who wandered down the stairs. As soon as the courtesan appeared, the guest lost interest, said nevermind, and went with Aestith up the stairs. He said he’d like to see the rest of the house. Aestith brought him up the stairs with the other three. The three of them seemed bored out of their wits but trying to act engaged as Tim led them from room to room, giving them the entire history of the room, and a brief history of the cities they were named after. He explained the choices in color and theme, the subtle braidwork on the curtain cords, the small origins of each decorative piece and their stories.

Aestith showed the fourth guest to the others and stood in the doorway, watching them. Each time they moved to another room, they inspected it thoroughly and tried to disperse. One of them pointed at the stairs, asking when they would see the upstairs. They wouldn’t. This was met with disgruntlement, then a resigned sigh as Tim showed them the next room.

The guests moved about the room, touching things, lifting them. It was all Aestith could do to keep taking the objects away from them. Dee’s eyes widened. Aestith set the china bowl down and went to her. He whispered, “What?”

“How many were there?”

He glanced back, and the blood drained from his face. He moved past Dee. The door to the stairs was closed, but not locked as it should have been. He crept up the stairs. He heard a lock click open, hinges creak. It closed, then the click and tink of a lockpick. A lock jiggled.

Power crackled around Aestith’s fingertips in an indignant anger. He cast out a hand. Radiant energy crackled down his arm, shot through the air, and hit the man square in the back. He seemed to glow for a moment, then fell. His lockpicks tinkled on the floor after him. The body made a dull thumping sound.

Aestith stomped toward the body, his eyes red with rage.

He kicked it onto its side, then jerked back. “Shit,” he whispered. He turned and raced down the stairs. The tour was just leaving the Luskan Rough and Tumble room. The power lanced through him again, and speared the first one he saw. The other two jumped. Both tried to run. Dee and Tim brought down the third. The fourth raced down the stairs. Dee shouted. There was yelling, a door downstairs slammed shut. Kairon stomped up the stairs.

“What the—” He stopped, staring at the bodies. “What the fuck?”

A door opened hesitantly. A man stared at the bodies, went pale, and slammed the door. In the other suite, the other guest looked at the bodies, grabbed something behind him and said, “I was never here.” He dashed past.

Eilora came down from her room. “Why is there a dead blue person upstairs?”

“It’s a doppelganger.” Aestith glowered. “Do you know what doppelgangers do?” By their silence, they didn’t. He sneered and said, “They kidnap people, keep them alive, sometimes for years while they garner what information they can from them, drain their resources dry, then move on.” He pointed. “And these ones were trying to break into Kairon’s room.”

“I’m getting the guard,” Kairon said sourly.

Both the suite doors opened. The courtesans looked at the bodies, paled, and rushed downstairs in near-hysterics. Tim and Kairon had to run damage control with the courtesans, eventually settling on paying them hazard pay and letting them go home early. They closed while the guard came in. Aestith refused to let them inspect the premises, insisting that they didn’t need to search the entire house when the bodies were only in hallways.

“But they might have been looking for something. Maybe something you didn’t know you have, or that they know you have,” the guard offered.

Aestith scowled. “That doesn’t make any sense! Just take the bodies, file your report, and be done with it. And see it doesn’t happen again. We barely defended ourselves.”

The guards carted away the bodies.

Aestith wasn’t certain how Zanisernix planned on getting his “guest” inside, but he was past due for arrival. On a whim, he checked the storage room, surprised but not exactly shocked to find the guest.

Aestith shut and locked the door behind him and went to inspect the guest.

It was a human man. A scraggly beard hid a weak chin. Unconsciousness smoothed some of the fine wrinkles on his brow and eyes. Aestith cast Dancing Lights while he looked for any tattoos or markings. His clothing was fairly nondescript, and told him little about the man. He was quite drugged, but Aestith didn’t expect that to last all three days. He looked for jewelry that might tell him anything, the man’s pockets. Even his boots were plain, but on a second search, he found a handkerchief. It was dirty and stained, some lady’s favor from long ago, Aestith assumed. He tilted it and looked for the initials.

It was, instead, a stitching of a triangle within a circle. The tick marks were faded and some had come loose, but he was fairly certain this was a symbol for Desmaduke. Aestith frowned. Who was this guy?

He stuffed the handkerchief back, then picked up the ballgag he had brought. Gingerly, he cut off the cloth gag and replaced it with the ballgag. He checked the fit and picked up the stretcher bar. He locked it in place. Before he opened the door, he cast Detect Magic. Finding nothing of importance, he left the room. He locked it behind him, checked the lock, and went to his room.

The courtesans were sent home early with hazard pay, and given the circumstances and how shaken they were, Boartusk went with them. Kairon donned his plate mail and stood guard at Boartusk’s post. Hogpen and Stoutbrew cleaned up and readied to close while Tim went over the night’s meager earnings, after having to compensate the guests’ stays.

“Whatever this bull shit is, it’s interfering with our business,” Kairon muttered before he shut the door.

Aestith didn’t know if he were truly the cause, or if it were coincidental. He supposed that he or any of the others had done plenty to anger enough factions around the city, hadn’t they? Besides, the “guest” in the attic was here specifically to hide. If someone had found him already, well--someone had fucked up, and it couldn’t be Aestith. Not yet anyway.

Being inside, and heading to his room, Aestith was unaware of the fighting until, probably the entire neighborhood was aware of it. His head jerked up and he ran down the stairs. Kairon was facing off against a group of bugbears as they attempted to get past him to the doors. Aestith moved to halt their advance, and shouted for Eilora. He didn’t see her, but an arrow zipped down from the roof. She had been in her room, and climbed onto the roof to get a good shot.

Tim was bloodied and clutching his side, trying to hold ground. Aestith pushed past him, shoving himself between the warlock and the bugbear.

Bugbears weren’t intelligent. In Enainsi, they were slaves, and smart enough to scheme and plan, strong enough to work, but mostly they were useful to employ as less-than-reliable mercenaries.

Aestith mulled that over as they drug the bugbear bodies out onto the street. After Aestith healed Tim, Tim and Eilora went to fetch the guard while Kairon, in a fit of rage and his tail lashing, shouted at the street and to anyone that would listen about the incompetence of the guard.

When they finally showed up, Aestith watched from the porch, terribly amused, as the tiefling bitched about how the streets clearly weren’t safe, how the brothel had been attacked twice in the same night, and that the guards were not doing their job. The guards took everyone’s statement with the tired, bored air of one who is much-used to belligerent drunkards. Dee pretended to cry as if she were a child, and Tim demanded an appointment with the guard captain in the morning.

Come morning, Aestith force fed the captive a bit of water and a fair bit of vodka. The human had pissed himself. Aestith’s nose wrinkled and he replaced the gag. He did all of his checks and went downstairs. He stayed near the Traveler’s Club during the day, as he had little else to do. Some of the others went out.

Aestith was suspicious that the doppelgangers had been looking for the human upstairs, but he wasn’t sure what they would want with some follower of Desmaduke. Hard to say, really. If he let the human come to enough to ask, he might find out, but Aestith didn’t trust the man not to scream. Then he would have a lot of explaining to do. He could use a spell to silence the room, have a light, and write down his questions, but it might be more complicated than yes or no, and Aestith didn’t want to risk letting the man’s hands free to write, and couldn’t risk him speaking either. He supposed it didn’t really matter.

Doppelgangers, from what limited information Aestith had of them, were by habit social climbers. He wanted to say that they may have been trying to take his or one of the others’ place. He was almost irritated they had called the guard, because he could have cast a spell so the body would be compelled to speak. One of the doppelgangers had escaped, but there would be no finding it now.

What if they had been after that man?

If they were, someone had botched a covert operation, and he knew, roughly, who to blame.

Or someone was Scrying and had seen Aestith. Aestith was fairly recognizable, a far cry from the gangly youth he had been. That pleased him, nearly. And bothered him. Perhaps he should have gone to the man being more discreet.

He frowned. But if the church had been looking for him, and made the connection to Aestith, they would have searched this place immediately with the guard, not sent doppelgangers. Someone else was looking.

Assuming it wasn’t a coincidence!

He reminded himself that things like this happened all the time--coincidences that seemed connected, but weren’t. He thought, briefly, of that body he had found when he was 14. He had thought it looked a bit like hepatoscopy at the time, and that it was likely Jaalie’s doing. All the events after that--he’d never know what half of them had really meant.

He wanted to. It would mean he was back home.

He shook off the homesickness and focused on his work. The candy making took time and effort, but he enjoyed it. He had to make small batches, and it left him smelling of peppermint, which he actually liked even if he didn’t eat it. He thought that sugar was too sweet.

He occasionally hinted to the others that there was money to be made by going to Skullport, even mentioned his sisters willing to meet them, and dropped a hint that his family were wealthy. They didn’t ask why--most people didn’t. Even to them, it had recently begun to look more attractive, considering the recent murders.

They needed a reason to skip town.

Tim had gone to the guard to complain about the doppelgangers. Aestith wasn’t sure what he expected. He stretched and got up from his table to open a window for the fresh air. The brief glimpse turned into shocked horror. Tim.

Idiot Tim, walking with a guard officer, and a dozen guardsmen.

Straight to the damned house.

Aestith stared for a precious handful of seconds longer, then shut the window. He rushed down the stairs, taking the time to lock the doors behind him. He ran to the storage room. What could he do?

He grabbed the master key and rushed into Eilora’s room. He took her blankets and ran back into the storage room. He piled the blankets over the man, locked the door again. He had just closed Eilora’s door when he heard the front door open.

Sweat beaded between his shoulder blades. He would kill Tim. String him from the rafters and cut off pieces until he died.

He took a deep, calming breath, waited for his eyes to cool to their natural grey. Guards filtered around the downstairs, streamed into the basement. Aestith reminded himself that he had the only master key. Tim was letting them into the rentable rooms in their search.

Aestith heard the third floor door unlock with a click. Sedately, he walked down the stairs.

“Drow!” one of the guards shouted.

Aestith stared down the pointed tip of a crossbow bolt from across the room. He frowned. “I live here.”

“Prove it!” the officer demanded.

Aestith gave him a sour expression. “I’m one of the owners of the brothel. If you bothered to look at the deed before you ransacked my business, you’d find ‘Aestith Rix’ on it.”

“Tim, is that true?” the second guard called down.

“Yeah, that’s just Aestith,” Tim yelled from below.

Aestith smiled pleasantly while the guards, with reluctance, put their crossbows away. “May I ask you to keep your voices down, please?” Aestith purred. “One of our guests is sleeping off a hangover.”

The guards grumbled. The first looked at the doors. “We need to get into these rooms, ma’am.”

Aestith’s back was rigid. “Whatever for?”

“Tim was very insistent that we do a thorough search, make sure we find any clues as to why the doppelgangers were here.”

“Their nature should reveal why they are here. You’re the guard. You should be questioning why they were in the city.” His tone was icy.

The officer frowned. “We’re looking into it. Now, please cooperate with our investigation.”

“You may search the basement and the first and second floor, but for my privacy and the privacy of my associates, I must request that you keep your business confined to the places we actually saw the doppelgangers.”

“In your statement, you said they were trying to get into these rooms? We’d like to have a look inside.”

Aestith’s eyes narrowed. “You seemed surprised to see a drow earlier. Are you certain you recall the report so clearly?”

“I remember your name, ma’am. The guard doesn’t record race for witness statements.”

Aestith snorted. “Indeed.”

There was a cold silence, then the guard said, “Do you have the keys, ma’am? Tim doesn’t.”

They felt heavy in Aestith’s pocket. “It matters not. I cannot allow you to enter mine or my associate’s private quarters without a warrant.”

“We don’t need a warrant. We have permission.”

The fine hair on the back of Aestith’s neck rose. “From only one of  _ six _ owners.”

“We only need one.”

“Then you are free to search his quarters.” Aestith gestured to Tim’s room.

The guard looked at Kairon’s door. “You said he was getting into this room in the report.”

“Yes.”

Another silence. The guard said, “Ma’am, I really must insist you allow us a thorough search of the premises.”

He shook his head. “No.” His will to keep up this conversation seemed to weaken with every exchange, but wearing down the other was the only chance he had. He didn’t know what else to say!

“You got something to hide?”

Aestith’s lips curled in distaste. “Do you have a warrant, officer?”

The man glowered.

Aestith raised an eyebrow. “Then am I to understand that this is an unwarranted and unprovoked invasion of mine and my business partners’ privacy?”

“We have permission.”

A pleasant smile spread over Aestith’s features. A sense of calm flowed through him and he bolstered himself with resolve. “Sir, we’ll never quite see eye to eye.” He flashed a grin at his own bad joke; the guard was nearly a foot taller than he. The guard was unimpressed by it. “And that, of course, is fine. But I really must insist you respect a citizen’s privacy.”

“Citizen?” he demanded. “Where are you from?”

Aestith tilted his head. “I own property here. I pay taxes. I thought Waterdeep was welcoming to everyone, or are there particular exceptions?”

He forged ahead. “Where are your papers? Do they even have that in the Underdark?”

Aestith raised an eyebrow. “Why do you assume I’m from there?” He sighed. “Sir, if this is just to become a needless attack on my race, I must ask you to leave.” He paused. “So please see yourself out.”

The guard slunk back, but not without completing a search of what few areas Aestith permitted. Aestith sat on the stairs to the attic, watching them quietly disperse. He followed them out, counting each one as they left. When they were out of sight down the road, he turned on Tim, eyes red with rage.

Tim jumped.

Aestith’s fingers curled into a fists. “Do you know how dangerous that many guards are for me? They almost shot me in my own house!” he complained.

“They didn’t.”

“I had a damned crossbow pointed at me.” He inclined his head. “And I have a shrine to Lolth in my room.” While it wasn’t strictly illegal, it was certainly grounds for suspicion, as well as bias.

“Do you have anything here the guards shouldn’t see?” His wide eyes screamed their innocence.

Aestith glowered. “It hardly matters! I’m guilty by virtue of my birth.”

“But if you don’t have anything bad, it’s okay, right?”

“So that means it’s okay for government officials to snoop through all of our belongings? It’s not!” He didn’t want to deal with Tim’s naivete any longer. He stomped past him, toward the stairs.

Tim said, “Hey, Aestith. What were those letters about?”

He stilled and glanced back at Tim. “Just love notes. Gossip.” He couldn’t make his eyes go back to grey by the wanting. “You know I love a bad romance novel.”

“You do?” he said, surprised.

Aestith sighed. “You really know nothing about me.” He went to his room, shaking with relief, and with anger. His anger passed sooner than the relief. Lolth frowned upon revenge. As much as he’d like to murder Tim, he couldn’t. 

Then he only felt relief. He had been prepared to have to flee, or to die fighting, because the alternative would be prison. When he stopped shaking, he got up and went upstairs. He took Eilora’s blankets and put them back on her bed. After a cursory inspection, none of the piss seemed to have gotten on them. It was hard to tell anyway, because she let her badger sleep in the blankets. He was grateful that the flimsy disguise of blankets had not been necessary, and hated Tim for driving Aestith to think it might be.

_ Two more days. _

Kairon patrolled around the brothel and down the street, vigilant for attacks. Tim kept to his podium, and Aestith stayed in his room, but he kept a window open so he could see the goings-on.

Predictably, when everyone was expecting another attack, it did not come. Aestith suspiciously checked the attic room, but everything was in place. He checked for any magic as he went to leave, and stilled. Outside the room, thinking she was hiding, was the halfling.

Aestith’s eyes narrowed. Dee was a warlock, but she was also quite good with lockpicks. Aestith backed up, and cast Silence as a ritual. It took some time to do, and he randomly feigned a giggle or made some knocking sound for Dee’s benefit while he did it. 

He took his time force-feeding the man his dose of water and vodka, and beef stock. When the man had swallowed it, he replaced the gag, and checked for Dee again. She was still there. Not coincidental.

Aestith settled in to wait.

When she had been still a long time, Aestith opened the door, carefully, and approached her. She had fallen asleep. By her breathing, she wasn’t pretending either. Aestith brought a chair up from the second floor and placed it in front of the attic door. He sat, and waited.

Drow didn’t require sleep, and Aestith had already meditated while he waited for Dee to fall asleep. She woke with Aestith smiling at her, and she snorted awake, startled. Aestith’s smile widened to a grin. “Did you sleep well?” he asked.

She shuffled nervously. “Yep.”

“That looked uncomfortable.”

“Yeah… Well, you know me. I can fall asleep anywhere.” She forced a cheerful grin. “Hey, Aestith, I heard you giggling last night. It’s nice that you’re having a good time.”

Aestith nodded. “Yes? Thank you, I suppose, though I don’t appreciate you trying to spy on me.” The smile remained fixed.

Dee stared at Aestith for a long moment, then scampered away. Aestith snorted, picked up the chair, and followed her down the stairs. He put the chair away, and worked on assembling breakfast. He ate, then took some water back upstairs again. He stayed in that day, mostly to watch Dee, but she went out. Allegedly--she could be sneaky when she wanted to.

The attack that came that night was thwarted by Tim yelling in surprise. He had gone into the back alley, for whatever reason, and stumbled upon a pair of humans trying to set the brothel on fire.

They had run away, and Tim had gotten the guard again, and showed them the pile of sticks and the lamp oil. It was a shame they had gotten away; Aestith would have liked to question them.

Setting fire to the brothel was an excellent way to get the inhabitants to leave, and with the right spells or items, you could walk through the fire and smoke unscathed to search the house at your leisure. It wouldn’t work in Enainsi--too much stone--but here, it wasn’t a bad idea at all.

Aestith was grateful that this was the last night.

The human male was gone by sundown, inexplicably, and seemingly without needing to use the lock--which annoyed Aestith. He would have to ask Arcedi how one might do that.

Arcedi hadn’t been by in a while. He wondered what the male was up to. He used a Sending spell to contact him. Arcedi said he’d happily swing by that evening, and Aestith felt strangely relieved. He had worried…

Well. Maybe he wasn’t entirely to Arcedi’s taste.

Arcedi laid that fear to rest quite quickly when he came in through the window. By the time Aestith was feeling confident of himself, it was late into evening, and the house was quiet. The cleric asked, “Could you assist me with something?” He spoke to Arcedi only in Undercommon, so that the other would gain a better grasp of the language.

Aestith slid into a set of pajamas and Arcedi put on his rather sparing underclothes. Aestith brought him upstairs and asked, “How might you break in, considering you had to lock it behind you, or keep it locked?”

Aestith unlocked the door and let Arcedi inspect the interior. No windows, no other doors, a solid ceiling. Arcedi paced and he considered. “Your roof is tile. You could saw through it. You’d notice the moment it rained, but it’s a possibility.” He frowned. “Spells probably, but that’s risky if you don’t know the interior.”

Aestith nodded. “Imagine you have to carry something. An unconscious person, say, that you wish to leave here, then get out again yourself.”

Arcedi raised an eyebrow and looked around again. “Throw the person into a bag of holding and use a spell to get in, drop them, spell to get out.” He peered at Aestith. “Why?”

Aestith was silent for a moment, then shut the door behind him. He signed,  _ It may have recently been relevant. _

Arcedi paused for a moment, then signed back,  _ What happened? _

He shook his head.  _ I was paid to hold someone for a few bells. _ Aestith naturally fell into using Enainsi mannerisms and slang when using Undercommon; Arcedi had the most difficult time with that.

_ How much? _ That one with a grin.

_ They left a box of gold in my quarters. _

_ Your room isn’t hard to break into at all. Your tower, a bit more difficult. _ He shrugged.

Aestith opened the door. Arcedi followed him out. “What in my room makes it easy to break into?”

“The windows. Three stories up, a bit more difficult, but doable. Then there’s the washroom window, break in through the door. Or the chimney, if you’re skinny enough.”

Aestith had one of the few rooms with a fireplace. He nodded in thought and made a mental note to put a grate over the fireplace. “Arcedi? Can you direct a bit of special attention to a noble house?”

He made a face. “I don’t much like messing with nobles. They’re vindictive, and have a few too many resources.”

“Yes, I understand.” He paused. “But I think this one will become important relatively soon.”

Arcedi tilted his head. “Oh?”

Aestith did not mention Zanisernix, but he mentioned the affair. “I know there’s something going on, but I’m curious who it is exactly. It may be useful..”

The albino agreed to look. Arcedi stayed a while longer before Aestith insisted he leave before anyone else woke.


	20. Catacombs

Aestith had Adam investigate the temple. Adam could more easily spy on those sorts of places than Aestith could. He thought about what he knew of Zanisernix. Almost nothing, really. He had come to Aestith, but had found him once by happenstance in the docks, not that this meant much; he was pretending to be human at the time.

Guild 538 seemed slow after he had left, not that it was running out of business, but most of the jobs seemed to be about lifting heavy objects or cleaning out dung. The only one mildly interesting was getting a job guarding a caravan. The brothel was barely staying in the black. Doing this could fill the coffers a bit and gain some advertisement funds.

He stopped on his way back to the brothel and changed course for the Piece. He ran into the same problem of not being part of their guild he initially ran into, that reluctance to share information. He was half-tempted to join if only for that, except that a tattoo was non-optional.

“Aestith, look. If you want us to share information, you’re going to have to join, or do something for us,” the bartender said.

Aestith made a face, looking at the tattoo. Were there ways of getting rid of it later? Probably, but he’d prefer to know before he went slapping something permanent on his skin when he, theoretically, still had centuries left to live. He’d rather not live several centuries with a tattooed puzzle piece on him. Especially not just to sate his own curiosity. There had to be a better way. He didn’t even know if they knew anything.

“What do you want me to do?” Aestith said.

He shrugged, and looked back at the glasses. “You’d have to talk to the guildmaster.”

Aestith frowned. “I’d have to know that you know anything.”

“Then we’re both going to have to trust one another.” An arched brow. “And maybe you’ll still need some ink.”

Aestith’s fingers clenched. “Then I want to see the guildmaster. Please.”

“I’ll see if Ned is busy.”

Aestith was made to wait for several minutes, then brought back down the stairs. When Aestith asked, the tattoos were, in fact, required. They claimed it was because it made them identifiable. Aestith told them that was stupid, because a second-rate warlock or bard could duplicate the effects with simple cantrips.

“It also weeds out members who are potentially troublesome over something trivial. And no guard would get the mark.”

Aestith stilled.

“We’ve worked together a few times. I think you’re relatively trustworthy. But I need to know it.” He frowned in thought. “You get the mark, and do something for me, and I’ll tell you what you need to know.”

The drow’s spine went rigid in indignation. “How am I to know you know anything at all?”

The man was silent a moment. “You’re looking for a drow named Zanisernix.” Aestith had carefully not mentioned either of those details. He had only inquired about the human guise. Zanisernix must reuse the same one. Ned cocked an eyebrow. “Thought so.” Another pause. “So. Do we have an agreement?”

His fingers clenched. “What’s the task? I’ll get the mark later.”

He smiled. “There’s a caravan headed south we were planning  to hit.”

“You mostly deal in smuggling.”

He raised his eyebrows innocently. “But, Aestith, that’s why I’m asking  _ you _ .”

He snorted. “By myself?”

“Of course not.”

He stared down at the table between them. He didn’t have time for this shit. He could pull Arcedi from spying. He could probably have everything he could carry quickly stolen before anyone noticed but he needed him doing what he already was.

He could just ignore the whole thing. It really had nothing to do with him, but he felt as if he were getting pulled into something he didn’t want to be a part of, not without knowing anything anyway. There had to be a better way. Aestith sighed. “I don’t have the time, but I can tell you an easy way to infiltrate the caravan.”

Ned leaned forward. “Oh?”

Aestith nodded. “The caravan. Is the shipment for Jacob Mallor?”

Ned’s face was unreadable.

Aestith continued, “There’s a contract for extra guards for it at Guild 538. They took me in, so they’re bound to take in a few of yours.” He smiled. “You’ll remove the possibility of extra guards, and already have some men to infiltrate.” He tilted his head. “Now, to further complicate the subject matter, I have some hallucinogenic drugs. I’ll give you a bit of the raw material. It tastes and smells like a mushroom, so this should go unnoticed in a savory dish. When you’re finished with them, they’ll be easy marks.”

Ned scratched the stubble on his chin as he thought. “You manufacture hallucinogens?”

“It’s a hobby.”

He was quiet a moment. “Aestith, I think we can have an understanding.” He tilted his head. “If you start supplying the Piece, we can sell.”

“And my information?”

He grinned and they made agreements for the drug shipments, discussed prices. After that was in order, Aestith gave him a clouded glass vial of the drugs. Ned looked at the quality of the glass, commented he could give Aestith a payout of the caravan for his help, or he could upgrade the lab. Aestith took the upgrade.

Aestith settled into his chair. “So tell me about Zanisernix.”

Ned lifted a mug of ale and sipped. “He’s an envoy at most. We’ve had some dealings with him in the past. His faction, if you will, is based out of Neverwinter and Luskan, but they come to Waterdeep every so often.” He examined the ale. “I won’t ask why you want to know.” He raised his head and his eyes lingered on Aestith’s face. He might have guessed the reasons. “They mostly deal in smuggling, but I imagine they have their hands in more than that.”

“Do you know the names of any of the others involved?”

“No, but I imagine they…” His voice trailed. “Aren’t too different from the envoy.”

He frowned. “Not even the leader of the faction?”

Ned made a face. “They just call him ‘the Huntsman’.”

Like the huntsman spider, Aestith had no doubt. “What is their faction called?”

“Dark Carnival.”

It was like a cruel joke. Aestith laughed all the way out of the tavern, without joy. Amalette had named all of the caravans, basing many of them off of novels and story references that no one else understood. Aestith had never gotten around to reading the book Dark Carnival was named from. He almost wished he had; it might tell him something about the smugglers.

He went to the library, and discussed it with a librarian briefly, actually being honest for once, that he couldn’t remember the author or what it was about, but he knew that one bit of information about it. 

Drow didn’t write things down; you had to have a light to do that, and most didn’t care for that. Wizards tolerated light to read, but they typically limited their reading to spells and the like. Nier’s family had a library of stolen books of medicine, poison, anatomy, and so forth. Amalette had collected works of fiction and poetry or wartime tactics, and the occasionally recipe book had found its way in. Not a one of them were written by drow. Paper made from lichen was difficult to construct, and vellum was valuable enough without wasting it on trivialities. Written words can be taken and used against the writer.

The librarian showed him a few books, but he said it was likely fiction, and the librarian suddenly knew precisely what he was after. Aestith curled up in a chair with the short novella, finding with some delight that it was precisely the kind of book he liked; well-written and to the point, with plenty of subtle horror.

No wonder Amalette had named the caravan after it. And no wonder this faction had named themselves after it. The world was small, and whoever had founded their faction was at least as well-read as Amalette.

He returned the book and went back to the brothel.

#

It was another unfortunately slow night, and they sent half the staff home early while the owners felt sorry for themselves. Tim stared dismally at the accounting books. Eilora shifted in her seat, then said, “There’s some issue at the City of the Dead.”

Monkey had actually swung by, for once, but the slow night and that the brothel expenses were higher than he liked compelled him to only hang out. Monkey had rather absolved himself of having anything to do with the Traveler’s Club. His name was on the deed more as a courtesy than anything else. “There’s always an issue there,” he said. 

“We’re pretty sure it’s a necromancer,” she said slowly.

Deekin frowned. “We?”

“Well,  _ they _ .” Eilora fidgeted. She was hiding something, but Aestith didn’t really care as to what.

Kairon lifted his head. “Oh, the undead problem? Yeah, the guard has been talking about that for a while. There’s a bounty out for each undead slain.”

Dee frowned. “How do you account for it?”

“Take their left hands. If they don’t have one, you’re shit out of luck.” He shrugged. “Is there a bounty on the necromancer?”

“A reward,” Eilora said.

Dee said, “How much?”

She shifted. “Not a lot. Like 200 gold, but the Temple of Kelemvor would be indebted to us.”

Deekin drummed a hand on the table. “How much is the bounty, Kairon?”

“Twenty per hand.”

“Could make a fair bit of coin,” Monkey offered.

Tim said, “Well, we’re barely in the black.”

“How about we do it and put the money into our expenses?” Aestith offered.

“Not my share!” Monkey exclaimed.

“Fine, Monkey gets his share.” Aestith looked at the others. They slowly agreed to leave in the morning.

Aestith was almost unsurprised when Zanisernix came by. Aestith made little pretense of not leaving with him, and they stopped a short distance away in an alley.

“A couple of weeks ago, we sent a spy into the City of the Dead. He hasn’t come back,” Zanisernix said.

Aestith frowned. “Go on.”

“We think he was compromised somewhere, and if he has been, we’d like him neutralized.”

The young drow nodded. “Not rescued?”

“I don’t imagine that would be possible, but if he’s been captured, he would probably be corrupted in some way.”

Aestith sighed. “I’m headed into the City of the Dead tomorrow anyway. I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Excellent. His name is Dalzek.” He gave Aestith a map. “Dalzek was mapping the region, but it is obviously incomplete.”

They parted ways with scarcely a goodbye. No one at the brothel mentioned the meeting, perhaps knowing better than to ask. They set out in the morning. For some reason, Deekin had insisted that going to the City of the Dead to kill a necromancer would be “educational” for Gil. The others took a carriage and Kairon rode on his summoned mount, which was a rainbow-haired unicorn named Franklin. It had originally been some sort of demonic dog, but when they had needed to advertise the brothel, he decided that a colorful unicorn would do a better job.

After only some minor convincing, the guard at the gate let them into the City of the Dead and escorted them into the problem area, where he unlocked a second gate and let them inside. He locked it behind them. They had to leave Franklin behind.

The undead were mostly wandering at the bottom of the hill, and had yet to notice the group.

Kairon and Aestith, almost wordlessly, took off in front of the others. As they approached, Eilora and Monkey took potshots at the zombies. Tim and Dee sniped the ones that got too close, Kairon and Aestith parted to draw out more of the creatures. Aestith struck mostly with his sword as they converged. They clawed and tried to bite. Brittle teeth broke against his shield. Blackened fingernails splintered on his armor.

A power surged inside him and split open. It poured from him like a sac of spider eggs torn to released the spiders. The undead turned and fled from him. As they scattered, they became easier to hunt down individually. The party moved into the crypt. Gil neither lagged nor loudly complained. Seeing the undead seemed to have frightened him to a blessed silence.

Aestith consulted his map on occasion. Eilora started to ask him why he would have something like that, but at his blank stare, she thought better of it.

They found the odd shambling skeleton and dispatched it quickly, all the while hunting for some source of power, some necromancer. Aestith checked every room for magic. After several run-ins with many undead, they holed up in a room and took turns at the only door to stand watch while the others rested. Aestith pocketed a single black candle next to one of the desiccated skeletons. He said nothing about it, but it was a candle of invocation, though he wasn’t certain of what god it might be to. Certainly not Lolth.

He sat down to meditate. Lolth consumed his thoughts, to the exclusion of all else. He barely noticed when his hands felt slightly cooler.

“Shit!” someone yelled. He heard a brief scuffle, some yelling. Aestith opened his eyes, and blanched.

He grabbed his gauntlets from the floor. The imp--that damned imp from the farm--twitched and sputtered its last breath onto the floor, an arrow stuck through it. He jammed the gauntlets back on his hand.

Kairon’s brow furrowed. “Hey, wasn’t that the imp you stole the gauntlets from?”

Aestith snorted. “Of course it was.”

He frowned. “So what is it doing here?”

The others were silent, and Monkey’s eyes widened. “Oh, shit, is this necromancer connected to that too?”

“It’s more likely the imp just followed us and saw a chance,” Aestith said blandly.

Dee considered. “But wouldn’t it have had an easier time trying to steal it while you were bathing or something?”

They looked at one another, suddenly uneasy as they remembered that fight with the scythe. Tim reminded everyone, “We can always turn back.”

This was seriously debated for several minutes, and ultimately decided against. They moved on, taking the time clear another room, then wandered down some more ever-sloping hallways. Aestith, leading the group, stopped suddenly. The others nearly ran into him. They grumbled and bitched behind him. He said, “Someone up ahead.” He could tell by their heat signature that they were alive.

They braced themselves, reaching for weapons. Dee dismissed her cantrip and they were swallowed in darkness.

In the total darkness, Aestith could better see the shape of the other four, and recognized the way they were moving as Undercommon.

He waved to them and signed,  _ Are you part of Dark Carnival? _

_ Yes. _

_ Looking for Dalzek? _

The four of them immediately relaxed and wandered toward them. Aestith told the others, “It’s fine.”

As the four came into the light, the others at his back bristled. The four were undisguised drow, all of them male. Half of them had gray hair, another just starting to gray. The one with completely white hair wore it cropped short.

“Aestith, who are they?”  
Aestith shrugged. “I suppose introductions are in order.” He waved vaguely to each group. “You all have names, you get the idea.”

The drow seemed amused, the others less so. Introductions were had. Deekin asked them what they were doing.

Bingath, who seemed to be the oldest of them, replied, “Someone we know got lost down here, so we’re trying to find them.”

“That’s nice of you,” Tim said, obliviously.

Aestith was almost annoyed. Did they want to send him four minders to make sure he behaved himself? Or to make sure he didn’t ask the other any questions before he killed him? Or they didn’t think he could do it. Regardless of the reason, he was irritated. The four drow interspersed among the party.

Tim said, “That talking with your body silently. That’s neat. I’d like to learn it.”

“I can teach you a bit,” the youngest of them said, his face unreadable. “This is a greeting.” He signed,  _ I eat shit. _

Tim practiced a bit as he walked until Ryze praised him his “natural abilities”. Bingath rolled his eyes. The two were clearly brothers. Aestith found himself terribly jealous of them. He missed his sisters, and wondered what having a brother might have been like.

Despite Aestith’s initial resentment of the four drow, he craved being near other drow, people who thought more like he did, who didn’t question why he might do or say something.

Eilora leaned slightly closer to Eiranish than necessary, inhaled, and wrinkled her nose. She straightened. He turned and scowled at her. She commented, “I guess only female drow smell like peppermint. I thought you all did.”

Each of the four drow looked at Aestith. The cleric sighed. “One could have the assumption that all wood elf hair is uniformly green and they keep honey badgers as companions, Eilora.”

“Well, I do,” she said. Aestith gave up.

As they continued, the skeletons became slightly more aggressive, some of them even wielding weaponry. They must have walked for hours, and Gil, who had seemed to have learned to be quiet, looked like he might have wanted to complain, but was afraid to.

They pushed on anyway. Sometimes, they sent Monkey, Dee, or Eilora to explore ahead. On one such occasion, Dee screamed, and did not come running back.

Kairon charged in after her, quickly followed by Eilora. Monkey ran down the hall next, Tim close at his heels. The hallway was narrow, and already quite full. Aestith watched from the connecting passage as the others filled the hallway. Occasionally, he glimpsed what they were fighting. An undead beholder.

He swore, casting from a distance, but he couldn’t see it to hit it with anything. He had to rely on the others. The other drow couldn’t get a decent shot with their crossbows either, and Deekin was almost blind in the dark.

It seemed a difficult, pitched battle, but Aestith only caught glimpses of it, before the fighting stopped. Dee came running back, panting. She was spooked, a little hurt, but no worse for wear really.

They continued on after a brief regrouping. They went down a staircase to an antechamber and through a series of corridors. Heavy iron doors had been installed on some of them, and they took it as a sign that they were getting closer. One such door opened to a circular chamber with a raised pillar in the center. A glowing orb sat on top of it. Staring at the orb, unmoving, were five undead. The fifth raised its head and looked at the open door. It would have roared a battle cry, but the undead minotaur no longer had a throat with which to do it. It charged at them. Kairon shoved his way forward and met it.

It was almost comical--this giant, stinking minotaur and the armored tiefling who refused to back down or give ground. Aestith worked at thinning down the skeletons, but they would fall and then randomly revive. Eilora took shots at the ones that got back up. Monkey moved to flank the minotaur. Tim and Dee poured into the room on either side of the door. The four drow pelted the undead with crossbow bolts. Cakecake threw itself at the minotaur. Gil stayed behind Deekin and tried not to get hurt while Deekin played a battle ballad and cast spells.

The minotaur went down hard and at heavy cost. The skeletons more easily. After some examination, Aestith and Kairon confirmed that the orb was some kind of beacon, and the likely source of the current undead problems. Despite that it seemed useful and costly, it was detrimental to have it active when it would take them hours to reach the surface again; they broke it and collected the pieces as evidence--and the hands they needed for the bounty. They had quite a collection at this point.

“And still no necromancer,” Monkey complained.

Eilora shook her head. “There were plenty of passages we didn’t explore.”

Gil fought back a yawn. Deekin said, “We’re all exhausted. We should find somewhere and setup camp.”

There was some grumbling, and they walked back out, in search of a more defensible chamber. Eilora drew to a sudden halt and shushed the others. “There’s something coming.”

“What?”

She frowned, listening intently. “A lot of undead, I think. Armed?”

“Coming this way?”

They could try to run toward where they knew the exit was, or go deeper into the catacombs to escape it, but they were in no shape to keep fighting by now. Aestith clasped his hands in a brief, silent prayer. He hadn’t expected an answer, merely an opportunity to briefly meditate on a solution.

His vision filled with spiderwebs. He broke from the group and marched after the webs. He called, “This way.” The four drow were already following him. He didn’t know if they sensed what he could so clearly see. He was barely aware of what he passed, or what he saw. The dark corridor was filled with spiderwebs, as if he traveling through a funnel-web spider’s web yet he was not caught. He walked through it as if it were his own and the webs did not catch. He followed the path they took, and scarcely saw any other passage or intersecting corridor. They guided him.

He stopped at a wall, and the vision ended.

“Well, where to now?” Eiranish’s words held a faint hint of a sneer.

Aestith contemplated the benefits of hitting him and instead looked at the wall. There had to be something here, but it wasn’t magical.

The others caught up to them. “I think they’re gaining.”

“It’s a dead end.”

As panic set in, Tim’s imp finally had enough of their nonsense and flew to one of the bricks on the wall. Using its entire body, it pressed against a brick and it sunk inwards. Something clicked and the wall swung back with an ancient groan.

Aestith moved into the new section. The others came after and shut the gate, looked for the switch. It was more obvious from this side, now that they knew what to look for. This area was covered in a fine layer of dust and all the footprints seemed to be their own. Old, rancid bottles of wine sat untouched in a rack against one wall.

“My friend Nick says you should always know where your bottle is.” Time plucked a bottle from the shelf. “I drank mine.”

“Who’s Nick?” Dee said.

Tim grinned. “Good friend of mine. Met him my first night in Waterdeep. Told me that I should always know where my bottle is.”

“Good advice,” Kairon said and selected his own bottle. Brass Monkey already had two.

Feinrekt peered at a door for a moment, seemed to consider, then worked at opening the lock. It sprang open with little resistance to an equally dusty hallway. He stepped aside for the party to go first.

Tim and Monkey chatted amiably as they walked down the hallway. Aestith grabbed one of the bottles too. Cobwebs broke and fell apart at the disturbance. He dropped it into his bag.

At the end of the hallway was a ladder. Kairon went up it first, with the reasoning that if it supported Kairon and his armor, it would support all of them, and if they were to open it to a face full of arrows, Kairon was mostly likely to survive.

He climbed up it, found it locked, and decided to bang on it. There were some noises from above like shifting furniture and against all possible odds, it lifted.

Kairon blinked up at a shadow and light. There was an exchange of a few short words, and Kairon climbed out of sight, disappearing over the lip of the trapdoor. One by one, the others followed. They were standing in probably the seediest bar Aestith had ever seen, the walls covered in damp with grease sunk in so deep the wood was oily. It was dark beyond the windows, the bar badly lit. The patrons were a few grubby humans, a tiefling with a broken horn, and, strangely two male drow.

“I didn’t think anyone was still using that passage,” the tiefling barman commented, shoving the trapdoor closed again.

“Where are the docks?” Kairon said.

The barman gestured vaguely out the door. The group filed out into the street. Cakecake snuffled along beside Eilora. He tried to lick the doorway, but Eilora clicked her tongue and he followed.

Aestith’s gaze flicked upwards, at first surprised that his eyes didn’t hurt, then strangely delighted. There was no sky, nor wind.

The city was mostly wood and hewn stone, the streets creaky planks built in layers, one on top of the other. The buildings sprang out of the wood as if some mad carpenter had decided that the buildings should slant perpendicular to the street with little to no distinction between what was street and what was wall, beyond a misshapen window or the placement of a warped door. Any attempt at paint would have only implied that the owner of the residence had enough money to waste on it. Most of the windows had damaged shutters, but some had glass; the glass was bubbled and poorly made or fixed together with glue or patches of tar when it wasn’t broken. What trash had accumulated on the streets was only what held so little value that a pauper would have no use for it. Toward the center of the city, on the roof of the huge cavern, was a carved spider.

“It’s the Port of Shadows,” Feinrekt commented dryly, in Undercommon.

Aestith commented, “Seems a rather formal name for a place like this.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s a local nickname.”

“What’s that? Not everyone can understand you,” Kairon said.

“It’s the Port of Shadows,” Aestith translated. To Feinrekt, he said in Undercommon, “What is its true name?”

“Skullport.”

Aestith stilled. Somewhere here was where his sisters did business. He should attempt to contact them while he was here.

Gil’s eyes were wide with wonder, but at least he was quiet. Eilora looked around, as if suddenly conscious that, for the first time in her life,  _ she _ was the outsider. She touched her pet for reassurance. “We should find somewhere to rest for a while.”

Their large group was drawing the attention of passersby. A group of bugbears were looking the group over. While each of the party were armed and armored, those things had come at a cost that might be worth a fight. Monkey grinned at the bugbears until they moved away.  Deekin said, “We could find an inn maybe.”

Aestith sighed. Finding a place that could accommodate their number would be a shitshow. Feinrekt said, “Sister, we could take refuge in House Tanor’thal.” He inclined his head toward the ceiling.

He hesitated. They still thought of him as female, and no drow could really trust one another. They had a common goal, and they knew Aestith was a cleric. It may be enough to trust them not to backstab him for the moment. He almost declined, but then Tim said, “Hey, Aestith, why are you the only female drow we’ve ever seen?”

Aestith looked back at the four males. “Sounds great.”

“That’s a good question,” Dee said. “Do drow women just tend to stay at home?”

Ryze grinned, and had an expression on his face as if he had some choice comments, but a cleric was present. Aestith raised an eyebrow. He said in their native tongue, “Something you’d like to share, Ryze?”

His eyes slid towards Aestith, not quite looking at his face, but they were the same height so it was difficult to easily avoid. “No.”

Bingath smacked him in the back of the head anyway and turned to go. Aestith wished he could tell them. He really did.

They walked through the city until they had reached an area just under the abandoned manor. It had to be levitated to. Eiranish seemed the most familiar with the place, and arrived at the door first. He stepped off and reached a hand out to Aestith, almost automatically. Aestith took it, the cold metal of the gauntlets keeping him from the warmth of the other’s hand. The gauntlets also hid how small Aestith’s wrists were.

It amused him that traits so common as feminine or masculine in drow were quite reversed in every other race. It made males of other species look far too feminine to him--too hairy often as much besides. And the females looked masculine. It was grotesque, and he reminded himself that if he found that repulsive, everyone else would find  _ him _ repulsive if they knew. Arcedi just didn’t know any better.

The house had been ransacked so many times that all that was left was an empty husk of its former grandeur. Anything that could be stolen had been. Anything that couldn’t be was torn apart in search of things that could be. It had been looted, graffitied, and forgotten. The dust and cobwebs seemed mostly undisturbed, as if whatever local drow were here had long-since lost interest in the place.

Aestith was inclined to wander a bit, but did not stray far, and knew better than to poke around the giant spider’s webs. It gave him some time alone to consider what he would say to Amalette.  _ I’m in Skullport. Where is the contact point? _

The reply took a few minutes.  _ It changes. We won’t be there for several turns. _

He swore and pinched the bridge of his nose as he thought. He unfurled his map and made a mark where the entrance was. Dalzek had found the corridor, but not the entrance, from the map. Aestith would know how to get back here from the crypt. He could think of little reason to stay and wait like a well-trained pet. He rolled the map back up. If they took out the necromancer, it should only be a matter of walking down the right passages.

He went back and the others had moved broken furniture around enough to make space on the floor, or use tattered cushions as seats. Aestith did likewise, occasionally interjecting with a sarcastic comment to the others’ jokes and retorts.

He found himself complaining about Emerick, then mentioned that what he should do is use a spell to just send him a long string of fart noises. Ryze, of course, egged, Aestith on to do it.

“Don’t listen to him,” Eiranish said, lips pulled into a lopsided grin. He had a dimple when he smiled. “But you should do it anyway.”

Bingath rolled his eyes. “I’m sure that a cleric has better things to do with her power than—”

“It’s done,” Aestith interjected.

All of them laughed. As Aestith grew more comfortable, he pried himself out of the breastplate and the gauntlets. There was some brief debate on whether or not to light the brazier because no one wanted the light, but everyone wanted food. Feinrekt assumed that he would be cooking, but Aestith helped, at first, then ended up doing most of it. It was simple camp food, and easy enough to make, but it was better than jerky and hard biscuits.

Aestith stopped suddenly and laughed at Emerick’s response. He said, “Emerick replied.”

“Well, leave us in suspense,” Ryze complained, and dodged a smack from Bingath.

Aestith cleared his throat, began, then shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t imitate his voice very well, but I’ll do my best.” Then, in Common, “‘Who the hell is this? What the fuck do you think you’re doing? When I find out who you are, I’m gonna fucking kill you—’” Aestith switched to Undercommon, “And then I presume that he ran out of words.” They laughed. Aestith added, “The nature of the spell even tells the recipient who it is from. The idiot somehow couldn’t piece it together.”

“Humans,” Feinrekt said with a shrug.

After dinner and clean up, Aestith picked up his pack and wandered off to an adjacent room, one with a still-functional door. He came back comfortably out of his breastplate and gauntlets. His hair hung loose, no longer pulled back in tight braids.

Aestith opened the bottle of rancid wine and took a drink. He cringed at the taste. “You know, I never thought something could taste this bad.” He took another sip. “Just as bad the second time.” He offered it.

Ryze took the bottle, blanched at the taste, and took another drink. He handed it to his brother and slowly the awful wine was passed until it was drank. 

Once the coals in the brazier had warmed the room, his leather and silk riding dress felt too warm. If Aestith ignored it long enough, the fabric would breathe and the temperature would even, but with the drink in his veins, he fidgeted. He started to push up the sleeves, stopped and turned the motion upwards. He gathered his hair and idly braided it as one of the other drow spoke. The bottle was empty, sitting somewhere to the side where it would gather dust in years to come.

Aestith actually liked the place. It was forgotten and neglected, incredibly lonely and hollow--and maybe he liked it because he saw so much of himself in it.

Everything about today had gone wrong at first, then Lolth had shown him the way out. He was closer to the Underdark than he had been in years. He was happily away from the sun and the surface. In fact, Eiranish said that the Underdark was just down the river. Aestith felt as if he had been suffocating for years and had suddenly been allowed a breath. He could read and understand the facial expressions and body language of the other drow without second-guessing himself. What they spoke about was logical and made sense. Aestith rarely had to ask their meaning or wonder what they meant or intended.

Feinrekt was pontificating on how he ended up on the surface--but they all had a similar theme of escape. Aestith wondered if they found it to be odd that someone “female” was on the surface, and a cleric no less. Though they had so far said nothing, perhaps assuming it would be better not to know. Knowledge wasn’t always power; knowledge could be dangerous.

The other four knew bits and pieces of their own stories, maybe more or less than what they told Aestith, and maybe it was only to hear of Aestith’s past; they had to be curious.  _ Stories _ \--drow didn’t write them down or record them, but they still told them. It may be an oral tale instead of a written one, which was more personal and could change over time and more easily be edited, but it was still a story. Drow lost nothing by not writing things down. They might forget things over time, but books burned and decayed, and the closeness of listening to someone else’s tale was lost over ink.

As they talked, Aestith unthinkingly and uncharacteristically rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. He probably sat like that for a while, commenting and listening, then it came time for him to talk, and all eyes were on him. In infrared, the scars may have remained unnoticed, but the dim glow of the coals was enough to illuminate the scars--scars that were so obviously self-inflicted.

“When did you stop?” Bingath asked. Aestith blinked and his spine stiffened. The other straightened in alarm. “Apologies. The scar tissue looked old—”

“About 16,” Aestith said blandly, fighting the urge to roll down the sleeves. “I eventually found a better way to orgasm.”

That made them laugh at least. Feinrekt studied him, then looked away. Aestith wondered when the last time any of them had seen a female drow was. Most of the drow on the surface were male. Aestith was only partway an exception.

Aestith tilted his head slightly. “The best one is actually here.” Over his clothing, he traced the scar that trailed around his left breast. Curiosity and questions burned in their eyes. “The ones from my elder sister stabbing me weren’t as fun though.” He hesitated. “I witnessed two of my six older sisters try to murder each other. I thought it best I make myself scarce.” He tilted his head. “And I have no sense of direction, so of course I got lost,” he added.

Aestith commented that the first time he had seen the ocean and the horizon that he had had a panic attack and vomited. This began a slew of comments to similar effect, mostly about the sky and that awful horizon line, how bright the sun was at sea or snow, which began a list of complaints about weather, except from Eiranish, who had been born on the surface.

After a while, the drink wore off and they quieted. They needed to Trance, which was done in rotating shifts. At the end of his shift, Aestith felt more restless than ever, and knew why. He tried to ignore it, but there was nothing to take his mind off of it. He had one book with him, which was some fascinating insight into the human psyche at some times, and smut throughout the rest of it. He attempted to read it anyway, laying on his bedroll on his stomach, a dancing light above him casting light enough to read, which the others disliked, but didn’t say anything.

“What are you reading?” Ryze asked, maybe just to fill in the silence.

“Some human smut literature,” Aestith confessed. “I am convinced that most of these are all the same story, in which some human male abducts some beautiful human female, and rapes her into loving him--which is a totally bizarre phenomenon and seems to run counterintuitive with everything humans say and do.”

A shrug. “It’s someone’s fantasy, isn’t it? Reality doesn’t have much to do with it.”

“I suspect that is the correct way to look at it.”

He stared at the page a long while. One of the many graphic scenes in the book. Somehow, the characters kept morphing into something more to Aestith’s taste, and something infuriatingly close at hand. He stared at the blank spaces between the letters and thought about anything that wasn’t arousing.

The stiffness went away slowly, but not the desire. He tried to ignore that, too.

#

Eilora contacted Aestith some time later, after everyone had rested, and asked him to meet at the tavern where they had parted. Aestith relayed this to the others and they headed back down. They took their time getting there. The others were sitting around a table over the greasy remains of what looked to have been a sad meal that mostly Cakecake ate. A mangy-looking cat sat in Eilora’s lap.

The four drow observed the situation briefly, then turned to a corner table where a group of humans sat. Bingath flipped their table onto its side. The humans rose in an angry unison and each group stared at one another. Slowly, the humans grumbled and departed, making some noises about how there were better taverns anyway. One of them righted the table and they slunk into the freshly vacated seats.

Dee frowned and gestured around the room. “Do they know that there are other tables?”

Kairon shook his head and called to the drow, “You know we’re trying to be inconspicuous, right?”

Tim signed what he believed was “hello” to them. Ryze grinned and waved. The other three held expressions of strained tolerance for Ryze. Tim had acquired a fire beetle on a leash, and they had somehow accumulated a high elf. 

Aestith stopped in front of their table and glowered. “What’s this?”

“Bugsy,” Tim answered.

Cool grey eyes fixed on the high elf. Her clothes were once fine and perfectly tailored to her form, but had worn around the edges and paled with use. “Not that one.”

When she smiled, Aestith was reminded of the way an animal bared its fangs. “Lady Tirowan Silastre. Charmed, I’m sure.”

Aestith could almost feel the distaste in the other drow even from several feet away, and he imagined it was just as plain to her, and just as reciprocated. “How nice to make your acquaintance. I’m Aestith Rix.” If the tension between them could be applied to a cord, it would have snapped. Aestith glanced at the others and noticed that they were short an underage human, a pirate, and the dragonborn. “Did we trade Deekin and Monkey for her?”

Eilora sighed. “No. We found a wizard who could teleport us home. Deekin decided to take Gil home and Brass Monkey… I guess went too? He was gone when we got up.”

He nodded. “That sounds like him.” He frowned. “What all did I miss?”

Tim said, “We had best friend bonding.”  
Kairon made a face. “We went around from tavern to tavern, looking for rooms, eventually came right back to where we started--where Tim sent his imp to light a fire, by the way, so no more Impy because someone shot it. Then in the morn--after we rested, we found a pet shop. Eilora adopted a cat, and we picked up Tirowan. She wants to come to the surface with us.”

“And she’s our newest courtesan,” Tim added.

Tirowan’s eyes seemed to sparkle. “I look forward to it.”

Aestith chose to ignore any obvious barbed comments that came to mind and said, “Are we going back into the crypts?”

Eilora shrugged. “Do we have a choice?”

“The teleporting wizard?” Aestith said as he dragged a chair over to the table. He moved Dee’s chair to one side, as the lightest one, and inserted his chair into the spot between her and Tim. Dee seemed annoyed, but not enough to comment.

By the looks on their faces, this was not an option, which was almost relieving because he still had not found that drow. “We could keep running through the catacombs,” Dee suggested with some reluctance.

This was met with a long discussion of the logistics of such a plan. Aestith said, “If we’re not going to teleport out, I suggest we run this gauntlet until we grow tired of it or find what we are after, then we can return to Waterdeep.”

They debated this briefly, and Dee pointed out that the alternatives would be fighting their way back out the way they came, or trying to weed through the catacombs and keep regrouping in the Port of Shadows, which no one liked. Then there was always teleporting out.

“Let’s just go through one more time then,” Kairon sighed.

They got up, paid their tab, and headed toward the trapdoor. The drow followed down the hole. They had to fight their way on occasion, and went off down a few different directions exploring, but Aestith noticed that, as they went, the four of them were more comfortable. They had taken orders from him before, and had surrounded him in a battle to protect him, but the tension was eased.

He would have felt similarly, in their place; it was impossible to say what one might expect from a drow cleric. He didn’t blame them the tension. The use of spells on innocuous things, simply talking, and the bad jokes had been the likely cause. It wasn’t enough to simply be in a position over someone, even in a theocratic state. That wouldn’t inspire them or convince them to follow you. Common goals served well enough, but you needed something else. With drow, Aestith knew that any trust he could place in any one of them was like building a house on ice; it might be solid now, but it wouldn’t last. They needed something.

Aestith wondered if the surface drow could ever need him. How many clerics were anywhere near the surface? How long had it been since they had taken part in something that was so central to their culture?

They went down a set of stairs that looked traveled and stopped at an iron gate. Beyond the gate, were a set of dark cells.

They had a rushed, hurried discussion about breaking into them when Eilora said that she saw someone in them. Aestith was in favor of going in, and the others seemed to know that Aestith would stay behind to get into it if they wouldn’t. And they were somewhat unwilling to leave Aestith to his own devices.

Dee worked at opening the lock on the gate and removed the chain. There were a total of six cells. In the first was what Aestith initially thought was a child, but by Dee’s mannerisms and the language they both spoke, he assumed it was a Halfling like herself. Eilora stopped at another cell, this one with a scared group of humans in it to speak with them while they waited for Dee to open the first cell. He listened long enough to understand that someone was keeping them down here for experiments.

The next cell was empty, the one across from it also empty. The last cell on the right held a drow, but not the one he was looking for. Aestith grinned at her. She stared blankly at him, her chin high and her back straight with good breeding, despite that she was barefoot and in prisoner’s rags. “What are you doing in there?” he asked in Undercommon.

Her lips curved into a disdainful grimace. She answered in kind, “So they’ve sent someone to mock me now?”

Aestith leaned against the iron gate. “Oh, you’ve got the wrong idea, love. I’m no friend to whatever put you in here. Are you enjoying your little cage, or would you like me to let you out?”

Her lips pressed tightly together. “I will not beg your mercy.” Each noun held a measure of distaste and sarcasm.

Aestith’s grin widened. “I wouldn’t ask you to. Tell me only why you ended up here.”

She paused. “I was here with someone. We were both captured by the necromancer.”

“With who?”

“Elrixen.”

“And your name?”

A silence, then, “Seija’ket.”

Aestith recognized neither of them. He detected no magic from her, however, and she seemed tired and half-starved. He glanced at the lock and reached for his own lockpicking tools, then considered. He looked back at the four drow. “Hey, a hand here.”

Eiranish strode toward him, and stopped the moment he saw the woman. He seemed to bristle and stepped back, out of her sight. He signed,  _ Sister, are you certain? _

Aestith walked over to him.  _ What is the most she could do? She is certainly no friend of this necromancer, and if she escapes and draws attention elsewhere, perhaps it will take attention from us. Unless you can tell me a good reason to leave her. _

He clearly didn’t like it. Regardless, he worked the lock open and shoved the door aside. The two stared at one another like a cobra and a mongoose. A mongoose, even an injured and half-starved one, posed a threat to a snake.

Slowly, Eiranish reached behind his back and drew a shortsword from his spine sheath. He tossed it two feet in front of him with a resounding clang of metal on stone. They stared at one another. Like a dog watching a wolf, he stepped aside for her to pass. She picked up the sword and wordlessly walked past Aestith, past the other three, who bristled when they saw her.

He wasn’t certain if they had known who she was, or if their reactions weren’t merely to seeing a female drow. But then, they didn’t react that way to Aestith. Did they know? No, he didn’t think so. Maybe it was only that they were working together.

The last cage had a sleeping ogre, and they let that one alone and slipped out, closing and locking the gate behind them. The halfling had run off. To the humans, Eilora gave some instruction on how to get out, but insisted that they were going to go into more dangerous areas, so they couldn’t go with them.

Seija’ket was long gone.

The main corridor led up another stair, through a hall with stone pillars and old graffiti. There was another animated skeleton, but they made short work of it. They sent Eilora ahead down one hall and Dee into the other to scout, leaving Cakecake behind. They returned and sketched a quick outline of the next room, telling them numbers, how many undead were there, how they were positioned. There were three doors in the hall the undead were, and the second, adjacent hallway connected to the same room.

Aestith’s eyes lit up with a plan.

Minutes later, Eilora, Tirowan, and Dee moved up the second hallway. The others went down the first, each group with a sending stone. When both were in position, Eilora, Tim, Dee, and the four drow fired. Kairon and Aestith ran forward. Kairon held Bugsy behind his shield. Aestith hung slightly behind the tiefling. As Kairon moved in to attack, he grabbed the fire beetle’s leash and dangled it perilously over his shield. He slammed the shield into the nearest undead. Aestith ducked behind the tiefling.

He squinted against the inferno of light and fire. Heat blazed all around him as if he had been shoved into an oven. The stench of long-dead bodies scorching filled his nostrils. As the creatures converged, Aestith shivered and let his power spread from him. Some of the undead crumbled and others ran from him. A few continued toward them and were met with a second volley of arrows and magic. Cakecake broke the legs of one with a brutal snap of his jaws.

Two doors opened. Fleshless feet shambled and old armor clanged and scraped against bone. Aestith and Kairon stood their ground. The others did their best damage control. Aestith turned more of the undead and Kairon felled them one after another, for another to take their place. Tirowan yelled for the cleric and paladin to duck, and a second inferno fell upon the horde. They charred and brittle bones snapped and blackened. 

They dispatched the remaining and surveyed the damage. Kairon had taken several hits, and Aestith felt drained. Both the warlocks had been hit in melee, and Tirowan had waded into it as well. Tim looked down one hallway, eyes widened, and he slammed the door closed.

“Crawling claws! A lot of them,” he yelped. “You know, I’d love to have one.”

“Now is your chance,” Kairon said, poking around the bodies.

“Not like this,” he said. “I want to be mentally linked to it.”

Tirowan sniffed. “How droll.”

“It’s important to have dreams, even if they’re stupid,” Aestith muttered. Along those same lines, Aestith made a face as he reconsidered his life choices. He opened one of the other doors, pleased to find another cell. He went to look inside. A naked male drow was strapped to a chair. Unconscious but breathing, and bleeding slightly from fresh cuts and gashes. His heather skin had darkened and yellowed with old bruising, raised welts dotted his flesh. Dried blood flaked from where fingernails had been.

“Hey,” he called to the other drow. “This your friend?”

The four of them ceased their picking over the corpses and trotted over to Aestith. After a brief glance, Bingath shook his head. “No.”

Aestith nodded and grabbed his hand crossbow. He shot the unconscious drow in the chest and the man stiffened, and slumped, dead. It was practically a mercy. The other door next to the cell opened to the sort of storage room he might have expected to find at home; the kind used to store instruments of torture. They were not well-cleaned or maintained.

The crawling claw door, Aestith passed, and opened the last door. Three excavated cavities with a set of iron bars created holding cells. A stone desk sat in one corner. One ragged human hunched in the cell in a fitful sleep. Aestith told the others and let them deal with it. On the desk, there was a piece of parchment with nothing but scribbled dates on it, but he detected something magical in one of the drawers. He called to Dee to get it open. Tim wandered in with her and looked at the sparse bookshelf. He picked up one of the volumes. Aestith glanced at the book, then his eyes widened. He reached around Tim and yanked it from his hand.

“You’re too young for this,” Aestith said.

Tim frowned. “I thought Eilora said you were a kid?” Behind them, a drawer slid open.

“I’m older than you.”

“What’s that? You know what, I’m sorry I asked,” Dee said upon seeing the cover. She handed the item in the drawer to Aestith and tried the other drawer, but it was stuck. She went to the human in the cell. Feinrekt and Eiranish, apparently bored, wandered in.

He looked at the book in Aestith’s hand. He said in Undercommon, “What’s that?” Aestith flipped the cover toward him. He lifted it from Aestith’s hand, careful not to actually touch Aestith. He leafed through the pages. “This is rather detailed.”

“Right? Just lying around in here.”

Feinrekt smiled lazily and handed the book back to Aestith. “Adding it to your collection?”

The book was a rather graphic, expertly illustrated volume of what amounted to drow pornography. “I’d say this one is a bit better than the others.” He dropped it into his pack. 

Eiranish tried to open the remaining drawer, but muttered something in Undercommon about Dee ruining the lock.

Aestith looked the small satchel over. It was a deep purple with a thin black spiderweb pattern. The leather was soft and pliable--he guessed brain-tanned and it felt like a rothe calf hide, something he had not felt in a long time. He stuffed it into a pocket.

The human had been a member of the Waterdavian Watch, which made Dee and all the drow uncomfortable. Eilora insisted they bring the Watchman along with them. She gave him a bit of food and water. One of the skeletons had a serviceable sword, and the man seemed well enough to handle it after the meal.

They briefly discussed their course, but no one was looking better than they had a moment ago, and there seemed to be little to gain in staying. A necromancer wandered the halls and there were enough undead to cause concern.

Aestith glanced at the four drow. “Sorry. I think we’ll have to leave Dalzek.”

Bingath nodded, as if he had been expecting this. “It wasn’t supposed to take this long. We did suspect it would be dangerous, but it is bordering on foolhardy.”

There were a few minor skirmishes on the way back. Between all of them, they remembered the twisting path back to the surface. The drow immediately parted when they reached the sunlight, and Aestith stayed with the others. He was almost sad to see them go.

Tirowan breathed deeply and exalted in the surface air; she had apparently been away from it for some time. It would be how Aestith felt if he were to truly return to the Underdark. Eilora’s cat seemed just as horrified at the sky and wind as Aestith had been when he had first seen it; the creature stared and tried to hide until she dropped the cat into her backpack, where it contentedly hid in a closeted darkness that it understood. They boosted Eilora over the side of the gate and she returned in a few minutes with the guard, who let them out. The guard seemed surprised to see the captured guardsman, and directed them to the Watchhouse.

Dee and Aestith waited outside, away from Tim who was attempting to summon a new imp in a nearby brazier. Dee took some time to identify Aestith’s satchel while Aestith observed Tim trying to explain himself to the guard. Amusingly, he genuinely didn’t seem to understand what he was doing wrong.

Tim received a citation, and Dee told Aestith that the satchel was like a small bag of holding. She handed it back to Aestith. Aestith wandered into a nearby alley, checked that it was empty, and upturned the bag. A single keg plopped onto the ground. A brief inspection proved it had smoke powder in it. Aestith dropped it back into the satchel, then dropped his own pack into it too.

Eilora and Kairon seemed more annoyed coming out of the Watchhouse than they had been going in. Eilora complained, “They don’t believe us about all the captives, even when we brought the guard back.”

Kairon grinned. “But I got the gold.” They set aside a portion for Monkey and they left to collect the secondary bounty. They divided a portion of that, and all the rest went into funding their failing business.


	21. Auction

For a great and utterly useless expense, the fine uterine vellum note had been dyed a deep purple. Some unfortunate sot had been tasked with carefully pressing a subtle web pattern into the animal membrane. A spider emblem had been pressed into the black sealing wax. Whoever had this made was incredibly pretentious.

Aestith’s lips curled in distaste. That wasn’t Arcedi’s doing.

He marched back downstairs, and wrote an order for grates on all the chimneys, then went back to his room.

He locked the door behind him and looked it over a second time. He found no traces of magic on it. He wondered if the stillborn calfskin it had come from had been a deep rothe, imported at great cost from the Underdark.

Aestith dropped it back on the writing desk and pulled off his shoes. He stretched, hung up the riding dress. Half-naked, he frowned at the note again. He should just burn it. Did he really want to keep dealing with Zanisernix and the rest of Dark Carnival? They had been no end of trouble, even the profitable sort. Even if they did make him feel less alone, was it worth the risk he put himself into? He was half-tempted to just throw it in the fire.

He rested a hand on the desk. He missed being around other drow. Besides, it might be fun. He wanted to get laid. Not with Arcedi, but he was nice to relieve that itch. He wanted someone more like himself.

He almost laughed aloud. Now there’s a thought. If only he could find another drow with his afflictions!  _ We’d have fantastic sex, no doubt _ , he thought with wry amusement.

A thin knife sliced neatly under the wax seal, cleverly taking it off without breaking it. Black iron-gall ink flowed over the smooth paper with the easy texture that came with money. The letters connected together vaguely like a spider’s web, with a kind of hurried grace that came from long practice. No blotches or smudges.

It was a dinner invitation. Incredibly mundane, considering. He didn’t recognize the name though.  _ Zelvier Zanziric. _

There was an address, a time for tonight. If Aestith started right now and took a carriage, he’d make it in time and dressed appropriately. He made a face. Was he really doing anything tonight?

The others could mind the brothel for a while, couldn’t they? He usually liked to have long baths, candlelit for ease of reading. He let the water run while he selected his clothing choices, laid out the paint and powders. The bath was quick, but his hair didn’t need to be washed anyway. He rebraided and pinned it, carefully placing the pins with the hidden daggers into the braids. The paint and powders he applied, glad now that he had practiced, would have shown up Haeltania. He already knew he looked exquisite in the dress.

Aestith, for preference, preferred riding dresses; they cut to his form well, and he could continue wearing pants. This one was similar to his normal attire, but cut in both sides instead of the front. The dress was purple with vertical silver stripes. The collar had originally been made to look reminiscent of a frill, but Aestith had it recut to look more like a spider’s web. Silver thread decorated the collar in a spiderweb pattern. He selected the thigh-highs boots with the silver trim. Everything else was black. It felt natural to bring his rapier.

He briefly lamented that his lodestone-grey skin denoted his lowborn birth, then he shoved the thought aside with an arrogant smirk. What did it matter? He was beautiful. His skin had smoothed out over the years, his hair had grown long and silky--a good skin and hair care routine was the more likely culprit than age but that played a factor too. His nails he didn’t have time to paint, so he had to settle for neatly trimmed and cleaned. And impeccably dressed.

He looked remarkably female. No, he looked exquisite.

_ I look like Ondalia _ , he thought. Not in his skin tone, for hers was a beautiful shade of obsidian, nor of feature of course, but in the way he was dressed. He lifted his head high, back straight to his full, if meager, height.

The heels in the boots lent a prance to his step and an extra sway to his hips. He strutted toward the front door.

Dee said, “Aestith, you like nice. Are you going out?”

“Yes, and thank you.”

Tirowan sipped her tea. Her lips left a faint rosy imprint on the rim. She had arranged herself in the room so that the evening light would fall upon her and make her porcelain skin seem to glow and her dark locks shine. Every small gesture implied that she had spent decades perfecting her mannerisms and appearance to convey class and charm. “Are you meeting someone?”

“Why do you ask?”

She regarded him as if from some lofty position, as if their roles at the Traveler’s Club were reversed. “Well, your normal manner of attire is a bit more practical for your lifestyle.” The inflection she put on her words implied it was the subtlest of insults.

Kairon looked Aestith over. “You’d make more money if you worked at the brothel.”

Aestith made a silent gesture common in the surface world and the Underdark as he went out the door. He caught a carriage to the location; a posh detached townhouse somewhere north of the brothel, the driver had said. Aestith had requested to be let out a block from it, so he had time to observe the area. The streets were wide, and the alleys between the houses were too narrow for many people to lie in wait for ambush. The roofs were slanted and hiding archers on them would be difficult. The houses had been built high rather than wide.

The residential street was relatively quiet, considering how many people lived crammed so close to one another. The property itself boasted a small yard with a high stone fence. Atop the stone were metal spikes to dissuade thieves. The house was painted a soothing shade of green with a muted brown trim and white shutters. Aestith assumed four stories, and likely a cellar. Given what he knew, probably more than just a cellar. Yet somehow it didn’t properly accommodate an unconscious guest. Or perhaps bringing them back here was too obvious, or unsafe.

He headed toward the wrought-iron gate. It opened before he had quite arrived and someone met him at the gate. The man smiled as if he had to practice it from directions in a book. “What can I do for you?” he said, as if he already knew the answer. He was dressed like a gardener more than a butler.

“I’m here to see Zelvier,” Aestith said pleasantly.

“You must be Aestith.” The man nodded and tilted his head. “Come this way.” He turned and opened the gate for Aestith. The gate clicked shut behind him. Aestith walked along the cobblestone path to the stoop. The small yard had meticulously kept grass and a small bed of purple larkspur. Colorful rhododendrons and oleander grew alongside the garden walls. On the windowsills were flowerpots with lily-of-the-valley, belladonna, and poet’s narcissus. The only reason Aestith knew the names to any of these plants were because they were all poisonous.

The door opened before he reached it. A half-elf butler let Aestith inside, and showed him to the parlor room. It was about what Aestith might have expected from the exterior--perfectly ordinary with rather subtle hints that it wasn’t. A pair of crossed swords on the mantle were hung in such a way that they could be drawn, instead of fixed in place more practically. The screen over the fireplace locked. There were probably other small details if he cared to look, but the person in the room interested him more.

A human male, middle-aged but what those romance novels described as ruggedly handsome, stood with one boot on a chest. He had a loose-fitting white linen tunic, so loosely tied it was open and pointed downward in a “V” to where his trousers were considerably tighter. Aestith half-expected him to be looking at a mirror. He turned his head and flashed Aestith a grin. He had good teeth.

It was, without doubt, Zelvier. He wore a human guise like most others would wear a jacket, in front of the large bay windows.

“You look as though you were posing for a painting,” Aestith commented.

He turned, the smile broadened. “Were you going to paint it?” he asked. His voice held no trace of the accent Aestith’s did.

Aestith’s red-painted lips pulled in a grin. “Do you like stick figures?”

He laughed, pushing off from the box. When he moved, Aestith glimpsed what he had been looking at. A map of Waterdeep. Zelvier gave an elaborate bow, the sort one gave when they were wearing a hat they didn’t want to fall off, despite the fact that Aestith couldn’t see said hat, due to the disguise. The slight shake of his head betrayed something else, too; the other might be quite used to the human guise, but he should keep his hair braided back while he was in it. He cloaked the motion as if he touched the back of his neck, but he had swiped hair from his face. Had he been rushed for some reason? Why? He had invited Aestith.

“Come. Dinner awaits.”

Aestith followed him through a doorway into the hall, then to the next room. A crystal chandelier hung over the mahogany table. Silver flatware gleamed in the candlelight. Zelvier went to a crystal decanter on a carved sidetable. He poured two glasses of a rich red wine. He handed one to Aestith and drank quickly of his own.

“I should thank you for what you’ve done for us.”

“You should,” Aestith agreed.

They looked at one another. Zelvier said, “Thank you.” He moved around the table. It wasn’t a particularly large table, but the sort that would easily fit six. There were only two chairs. Zelvier reclined in one of them like a cat. A black boot with black stitching in a spiderweb pattern rested a heel on the expensive, lacquered table. Aestith tentatively sipped the wine. He reasoned that the other had drank it quickly enough, and if it were because Zelvier had a remedy to the poison somewhere, there really were easier ways to kill Aestith right now.

The wine was, as expected, also expensive.

The image of a human tilted his head. “If you don’t mind me asking, what brings you to Waterdeep?”

Aestith leaned a hip against the table. “Would you believe me if I said that I honestly just have a poor sense of direction and got horribly lost?”

He smiled, either because he guessed it wasn’t entirely true, or because it was practically cliche. Or both. He nodded. “That’s… actually a fairly common story.”

Aestith tilted his head. “Or a common lie.” He smiled to take the edge off the statement. “In my case, it happens to be true. I’m afraid I have no sense of direction.”

Zelvier looked up at Aestith, then shifted in the chair. He rose. His footfalls were too light for the frame he took. Aestith wondered what he really looked like. The human-guised man lifted a tray from the spread and offered it to Aestith. With his other hand, Zelvier picked up a wedge of cheese. Aestith straightened from the table.

Aestith glanced at the spread of fruits and cheeses. He pinched a single red grape between thumb and forefinger and plucked it from the vine. Without breaking eye contact with the other, he put it to his lips and drew it back with his tongue.

The man watched him, lips twitched into something almost a smile, a flash of perfectly straight teeth, then he set down the tray. Aestith watched the way his back bent. The man moved back to the chair with a graceless flounce that somehow conveyed exactly how practiced the gesture was.

Aestith knew he was supposed to sit, but it hadn’t been offered, and Aestith wasn’t about to lose this powerplay. Not yet anyway. He set the goblet down.

He looked at the large window, studying the reflection rather than the view. In the reflection, the man turned and looked at Aestith. “What I suppose I am driving at is, do you want to be in Waterdeep?”

Aestith snorted and shook his head. “No.” He looked over his shoulder. “I actually hate it here.” He looked back at the reflection, the candlelight. His fingers twitched to snuff it out.

The man stretched. “You don’t have to stay. Where do you want to go?”

A pause, then, “Home.” Aestith turned toward him. “I want to go back to Enainsi.”

“Enainsi,” the man rolled it off the tongue.

Aestith shrugged one shoulder. “I think, it’s a long way from anywhere. But the Underdark would do.”

Zelvier smiled, something self-important this time. “Do you miss it that much?”

Aestith stalked back across the room toward him, glanced again at the untouched food. “I think I’d do almost anything to go home.”

An eyebrow arched. “Really? Anything.”  
Aestith nodded once. “I did say ‘almost’.”

He nodded, eyes flicked over Aestith. “You did.”

“Could you get me home, Zelvier?”

“I might be able to do that.” He gestured at the table. “Anything to your taste?”

Aestith looked at him. “Perhaps.”

He smiled. The boots slid back onto the table, as if this were his normal pose. “So you… work at a brothel, is that right?”

Aestith laughed. “I can see where you might gather that assumption. Despite one of my associate’s best efforts, no. I’m a partial owner.”

“Ah.” His face was, for a moment, unreadable. Almost disappointed. “How do you tolerate your associates doing that?”

Aestith shrugged. “I often don’t. Other times, I find them amusing and fascinating. Sometimes, only useful. And they can talk to people or go places I can’t.”

His lips twitched into a frown. Neither needed to say why that was. He said, “Yes, I understand that. We have a few humans and half-elves too.” He paused. “Have you thought about going to Luskan?”

Aestith shook his head. “Why?”

“You’d fit in better.”

Aestith sighed. “If I am being honest, it makes little difference to me. One place on the surface is just as bad as another.”

He smiled. “Earlier, we were discussing your business, and the courtesans. If it’s not too forward, what sort of partners do you keep?”

The shortest of pauses. “Drow. Exclusively.” He lifted his chin. “A half-drow once, but I make regrettable decisions when I drink.” Aestith’s fingers strayed to the half-drained goblet of wine.

Zelvier reached to his head, and made a gesture as if removing a hat that Aestith couldn’t see. He dropped the red cavalier hat on the back of the chair. Blue should be confined to paint, to cloth and dye, plants, some animals--and eye color; Zelvier’s were the shade of blue lace agate, set in skin so dark it was inky. His hair had silvered instead of greyed, or perhaps he dyed it. He didn’t look all that different from the human guise, now that Aestith could see him properly. Ruggedly good-looking, but a more agreeable height, and a smaller build, younger in appearance. The clothes were the same flamboyant, loose-fitting cut.

Aestith shivered with longing. He wanted desperately to end this farce of wordplay and climb into his lap, but he couldn’t. This drow wouldn’t be bullied into being bound and blindfolded. What could Aestith do? Hating himself, he shrugged and glanced away. He said, “I doubt I’d be to your taste.”

Zelvier pushed from the table. Boots clacked on the floor. “A great many things are to my taste. We could find out.” He cleared the distance between them as he spoke. Suddenly aggressive, he grabbed Aestith by his effeminate hips and pulled him to his groin. The last of Aestith’s resolve melted like chocolate in a pan.

Zelvier was surprised, but pleasantly so at Aestith’s sudden change of mind, delighted at how quickly Aestith pulled off his clothing. Aestith put up some struggle when the other tried to undress him, but the other was stronger, and Aestith didn’t really want to win that fight. Before Zelvier could get to Aestith’s pants, Aestith dropped to his knees and took the other in his mouth.

Drow females didn’t do this for males, as a matter of social standing and pride. It simply wasn’t done. Aestith, however, loved to do it. He liked the way it felt in his mouth, and he liked the taste. He liked his bed partners’ reactions to it; the initial shocked surprise, a touch of fear, and, most of all, the way they would relax and mold to his touch--or, better, how it would make them bolder. Aestith had always bound his partners before to curb that boldness, and he was almost afraid, because Zelvier was free, but it could easily distract and Aestith might evade him long enough to keep his secret.

“Fuck,” the other whispered, started to touch Aestith’s beautifully braided hair, and stopped. His fingers mapped the curve of Aestith’s working jaw, to trace the flash of Aestith’s throat. Aestith could have happily, contentedly, continued for a long time, and for a while it seemed the other would have let him, then he shoved him back. Aestith lost his balance and tumbled on the floor. The other pushed him down, pinning one leg under a knee. He tugged the laces of Aestith’s boots free and slid them from his feet. Aestith used his toes to pry off his own socks. The other was preoccupied with Aestith’s slender legs.

“You’re so small,” he mused, in a way that seemed both intrigued and affectionate.

Aestith glanced at his chest. “Just what a body wants to hear…”

He chuckled, kissing his way from Aestith’s naval to his breasts. He licked a nipple. “I was referring to your whole shape.” He frowned, looking up at Aestith’s terribly androgynous face. Aestith reached a hand to one of the hairpins in his hair. He slid it from the coil of braids and set it on the floor. 

Zelvier’s fingers curved into Aestith’s pants. Aestith’s stomach tightened with a sudden fear. They would stop. This would end. At best, it would be awkward and uncomfortable. And at worst, it would be violent. Or the other would laugh. Aestith swallowed, remembering Nier’s horror at discovering what Aestith was. Aestith grabbed the man’s wrist in an attempt to stay his hand. The other’s teeth nibbled along Aestith’s ribs, then licked back to his pants. He untied the knot with his teeth, his other hand untying the laces.

Aestith’s throat felt suddenly dry. His arousal edged closer to fear. The other pulled Aestith’s pants down, slowly, inch by inch. Zelvier’s lips formed an “o” of surprise. Then he grinned. “That’s what you’re on about.”

Aestith flinched. “I tried to tell you. If you aren’t interested, I’m still happy to swallow you.”

The other drow looked up, and yanked off Aestith’s pants. For one horrible instant, Aestith remembered the boys who had tried to hurt him when he was fourteen, how they had attempted to rip his clothes off. Then the other bent his head between Aestith’s legs.

Aestith had rarely lain with anyone even aware of Aestith’s body; he had only felt this a handful of times. His body convulsed and he twitched, pulled Zelvier to him. His other hand raked through his hair, found the second hairpin. He had left it in in case he needed the stiletto inside. He removed it.

The other pulled back, leaving Aestith wet and hard. His lips brushed the tip of his cock as he spoke, “And you thought I wouldn’t be interested.”

Aestith, emboldened, took the other’s wrist and guided his hand back, past his balls, to the female part, wet with its own fluids. The man’s eyes widened in delectation.

The older drow was experienced, delighted in Aestith’s body in a way the cleric had only dreamed of. They would finish and stop, sipping wine, rarely speaking, then one or the other would go back. A touch or a kiss, and it began again. Aestith wanted every part of him filled, and the other was determined to fill that need. And when Zelvier suggested something to Aestith, Aestith all the more eagerly climbed over him.

Arcedi liked Aestith, but in the end, Aestith knew that Arcedi only had a passing interest in the male form. Zelvier seemed to like both equally.

Eventually, they had to stop when their bodies were too sore and there was just nothing left. They had, slowly, made their way to the bedroom over the course of the last few hours.

Aestith’s eyes were closed, half in trance, but not in sleep. The other’s fingers played with a curl. He had said that Aestith’s freckles were cute. Aestith told him to fuck himself. The other had some other ideas that were more entertaining. Then Zelvier had said, “Have… Are you able to do that? To fuck yourself, I mean?”

Blood rose to Aestith’s cheeks, and the other had to see the sudden flow. “Once,” he mumbled. “It was weird. Never again.”

A shrug. “So you say.”

Aestith scowled, then his lips twisted into a frown. “You planned all of this.”  
Zelvier’s hand buried in Aestith’s thick, curly hair. “Hm?”

“Tell me, how did you know before you met me that you wanted to have this entire seduction scene?” Aestith’s smirk was unaccented by the red lipstick. It had been kissed and wiped away, vague traces of it somewhere on Zelvier’s body. “What if I were hideous?”

That amused him. “Zanisernix said you were pretty--and do you know how often any of us even see a female drow? Of course I was interested.”

Aestith rolled his eyes. He wondered if Zelvier was the type to berate his lackeys to stay away from Aestith. He didn’t strike him as being jealous or possessive though.

“After meeting you, I agreed with him. And after seeing you naked, I didn’t; you’re exquisite and a delight in bed.” His lips pulled into a half-smile, the sort that was pleased with himself. They were silent for a time, and the other was still for a longer time, perhaps in a trance, then his breathing changed. Aestith shifted, a stretch popping his back. He needed to get out of bed. The other said, “Would you do something for me?”

“Thought I already did that.”

A chuckle. “No. Something else.” He slid from the bed and it was suddenly cold. Aestith rolled into the spot the other had lain. The sheets fell around Aestith’s hips and the other looked, momentarily distracted before he turned back to the task at hand. He opened a chest and rummaged through the contents. He removed a smaller chest at the bottom and placed it on the table. He unlocked it with some combination and sat, slowly counting gold coins. Aestith could think of little else less boring than money counting. He should get up though. Aestith brushed his hair, listening to the steady clink of the coins. The door opened. Aestith grimaced, but the blanket covered him to his waist. A tray was placed on the table and the door shut again.

Without looking, Zelvier picked a pear from the tray and bit into it. Juice glistened on his lips. His tongue darted out. He bit again, absently, without even a thought as to if it had been poisoned.

Aestith realized,  _ He’s like their matron mother. No, more than that. They can’t poison him, not because he’s so powerful, but because they all rely on him. _

You could never get drow to like other drow, not exactly anyway. Drow tolerated one another and friendships were tenacious and brittle as iron. Trust was naive. But you could shape dependency, craft a bond of reliance, build that mutual usefulness until one or the other, or both, need the other to support themselves.

He was their keystone. And he knew it.

“A cleric of Desmaduke passed away some years ago. Her armor was given to her next of kin, but they fell on hard times. At present, it’s up for auction. This afternoon.” He glanced Aestith. “It’s an invitation only, but I do have an invitation. I’d like you to pick it up for me.” He dropped coins into a heavy purse.

Aestith reclined on the silk pillows. “Is there a reason you can’t do it yourself?”

He gave Aestith a humorless grin. “Unfortunately, I can only bring in three guests, maximum.” He tilted his head. “They’ll be expecting me and I have no doubt it would be detrimental to my health if I went.” He flopped into a padded leather chair. “You, however, are unconnected to me, and have an established presence in the city, so you may very well go where you wish.”

Aestith paused. “Go on.”

He gestured at the bag. “I have five thousand gold in the bag. I’m not certain it will be enough, but it’s what I have on hand. Now, you could just take the money and run off and I’ll never see you again.” He tilted his head and his quicksilver hair slipped over one shoulder. “But I don’t think you will.”

Aestith climbed from the bed, and turned from him. Dawn threatened. He should close the curtain. He couldn’t help but wonder that, if he had just sat down and had dinner and hadn’t so quickly jumped into bed with Zelvier--half an hour of meeting one another was a personal record for Aestith--that if he would get more out of this agreement. Still, what more did he want than a good lay? How difficult could buying something at an auction really be?

“Why do you think a suit of armor will be that expensive?”

“Enamel. Enchantments. Personal value. Propensity for mischief. That sort of thing.”

“Is it very unique?”

“Not terribly, but acquiring a duplicate would be difficult.”

Aestith snorted. A Desmaduke cleric’s armor. Leverage over a paladin. Who was that guy Aestith had kept in the attic? Some acolyte? What were they planning with the church? It wasn’t really Aestith’s business, and he couldn’t say he cared beyond mere curiosity. He really only cared because it might come back to bite him. So far, none of the things he had done for Zelvier would likely have real repercussions. This could be tied back to him, especially if people knew he had purchased the armor.

“That sounds like a risk for me, depending on what you’re doing with that armor,” Aestith mused. He pulled the curtain closed.

Zelvier’s silence told Aestith all he needed to know; he wasn’t going to tell Aestith the ultimate plan. Which was fine by Aestith’s standards. 

The cleric looked back over his shoulder. “I don’t care what you plan on doing with it. I’m more concerned that this is going to affect me.”

“It shouldn’t.” A pause. “Procure the armor and have it delivered to your establishment.” He smiled. “Eiranish will pick it up.”

The lilt he placed on the last few syllables implied theft. “Why not just heist it from someone else?”

His smile showed teeth. “Less risk this way.” A pause. “The auction house will have insurance, so I won’t even be out the gold.”

There was a bigger reward than the five thousand he was willing to spend. Aestith made a face. “Assuming I’m outbid?”

He shrugged. “Do what you can.”

The cleric folded his arms under his breasts. “And what will you be doing while I’m doing this?”

Agate eyes flicked toward Aestith. “Keeping anyone from Scrying on you. As I’ve been doing since you started running errands for me.”

Someone knocked at the door and Xaiviryn turned his head toward it. Aestith cringed instinctively and hurried into the washroom before Xaiviryn attended to the door. He needed to wash out his mouth anyway and run a comb through his tangled hair. When he stepped back out, his clothes were sitting on the chaise lounge, neatly folded. They looked clean. The hairpins were next to them, and the rapier.

A tray of fruit, cheese, and a braided loaf of bread sat on the table. Xaiviryn wore a loose silk robe with hand-painted paisleys, open. He had his bare feet on the small table, a knife in one hand carving into an apple. He did not look up. “So you’ll help?”

“I’m not doing anything today.” He tilted his head. “Except you maybe.”

Xaiviryn looked up from his work, the knife pausing halfway in the apple. “Then we had best hurry, or you’ll look a mess at the auction.”

They didn’t hurry, and Aestith left with his hair washed and smelling of the spicy essences that had gone into the bathwater. Ordinarily, Aestith would have just gone alone, but he didn’t trust that something wouldn’t go wrong and he was allowed guests, so he went back to the Traveler’s Club. Tirowan was going over some contracts with Tim and Eilora. She seemed to be negotiating her rates, and the brothel could use a madame.

He flashed the auction invitation. “Hey, it looks like all of you are terribly busy. How about a fancy auction?”

Tirowan lifted her head. The way she perched in her chair gave the appearance of elongating her already long legs. “Oo! What kind?”

Aestith dropped the invitation on the table. He disliked the high elf on principle, but she was a wizard and that could be useful if things went the way they usually did. “The variety that allows us to sample expensive food and dress up. Do you wish to join?”

She looked at the invitation. “Yes, of course.”

“It could be a good place to advertise,” Tim commented.

“Eilora?” Aestith said.

The wood elf made a face, then nodded her assent. “Yeah, all right. Cakecake can wear his bowtie.”

“Wonderful.” Aestith whisked the invitation away. He changed into slightly more practical garments, and met the others on the patio. They took a carriage to the auction house. Aestith handed over the invitation to the gatekeeper.

Tirowan preened. “They’re with me.”

The gatekeeper raised an eyebrow. “From what we know, you’re with the drow.”

Aestith smirked and Tirowan’s spine straightened as if she had been slapped. They meandered down a garden path to the front doors of the auction house, inundated by the smell of flowering plants. The doors were open to let in the fresh air. Guests mingled about the hall, looking at the dull and rather expected landscape paintings. Sound carried under the vaulted ceiling and the harpist had been placed where it would make the most effect. The groups mostly kept to themselves. More than one group had guards.

Eilora milled about on the large porch, enjoying the sunshine. Tirowan attempted to mingle with the well-to-do. Tim eyed someone carrying a most horrifying pet. The other guests gave this one a wide berth; no one really wanted to mingle with a mindflayer.

Aestith noticed him watching and he said, “Tim, why don’t you go ask him about his pet?”

Tim brightened. “I will!”

Aestith gaped, then his jaw snapped closed. He shook his head in astonishment. Most of the people in the room had the dignity and social graces not to stare. Others couldn’t reign in their impulses.

Tim thrust out his hand and smiled welcomingly. “Hi, I’m Tim! I couldn’t help but notice your pet.”

“Yes, it is a rather marvelous creature.” The mindflayer stroked the intellect devourer.

“Can I touch it?”

The mindflayer held out the creature. Aestith’s eyes widened. Could Tim really be that stupid? Tim reached out a hand to pet it. The intellect devourer lunged toward him, kept in check only by a thick leash. Tim, acting on whatever self-preservation instincts he still possessed, jerked his hand back. The mindflayer pulled his pet back to him and it calmed. Tim said, “What a, uh, cute little guy. Does it have a name?”

“It might. Some day.”

Tim nodded sagely. “Well, naming a pet is a difficult decision. It’s so calm when you hold it. How do you do that?”

“I could teach you.”

“Oh, do we have time for that?”

Eilora peered inside.

“It would only take a moment.”

He smiled broadly. “What’s it like as a pet?”

“They become very attached.”

Tim started to pet it again, seemed to remember in time, and clasped his hands in front of himself. “I can see that. Are they very difficult to take care of?”

“Not at all. They often take care of themselves, in the right circumstances.”

His idiot grin stayed in place. “So, where did you get it? I think I might want one.”

“I could introduce you to it. You’d never be apart.”

Aestith felt like he had fallen into some pocket dimension of insanity. Even the harpist had stopped playing. 

Eilora whispered, “Aestith, what the hell?”

He hissed, “When I told him he should go introduce himself to the mindflayer, I didn’t think he actually would.”

She glared at him.

Tim continued, “Oh, that would be great! Not right now though. You can feel free to come by later to visit.” He handed the mindflayer a pamphlet for the Traveler’s Club.

Eilora said, “If a mindflayer comes to the brothel, it is your fault, Aestith.”

“I didn’t invite a damned mindflayer to the brothel,” he snapped.

A door opened and a woman stepped into the hall. She said, “All present, the auction is now beginning. Please enter the hall and take your seats.”

Aestith breathed in relief and trailed into the hall, carefully waiting until after the mindflayer had sat down, and procured a seat on the upper left, away from it. The others clustered near him. Tirowan said to Tim, “What the hell?”

Tim blinked innocently at her. “What? I just invited my new friend to introduce me to his pet.”

Her pale fingers clenched into a fist. “Right… Tim—”

Then the auction began. Aestith waited through the paintings, the jewelry, and small trinkets. Tirowan enjoyed looking at the expensive items, and seemed to take note of all the high-paying buyers. Eilora was bored. Tim tried to give the person next to him a flyer for the Traveler’s Club. The mindflayer was outbid on a sapphire pendant, and Aestith was distressed to see it growing angry.

Sapphires were useful in all kinds of spells. Most gems were. That sapphire was particularly pure and had a beautiful color. It wasn’t worth throwing a fit about, however.

The gem was sold. The mindflayer dropped the intellect devourer and disappeared. His pet charged in a straight line toward the podium.


	22. Belonging

Someone screamed. The auctioneer ducked behind the podium. The intellect devourer darted around it. Her guards converged and so did a contingent of others, but not to help.

One of their number made a grab for the sapphire. Another swung at her. Aestith cast out a hand and darkness engulfed the room, centered on the leash. Attacks were made and missed, or became glancing blows instead of fatal wounds. Aestith darted forward and snatched the stone from the podium. He looked around him, watching the warm bodies as they panicked, yelled, fled. He was the only one who could see. He dropped the jewel into the satchel.

He turned and escaped down a hallway, bursting into a sunlit kitchen. Someone followed behind him. It was the auctioneer. He dashed into the garden and took a deep breath, headed toward the garden wall so his back was against something.

“Wait!” the auctioneer yelled. “Stop!”

He held up his hands. “There’s an intellect devourer in there! No!”

“My guards will handle it.”

“How do you know that?” He could still hear fighting from inside. He stepped away from her and eyed the height of the wall. He could levitate over it. She was bleeding heavily from a wound on her shoulder. A cut marred her cheek. He raised a hand and a wave of healing washed over her. Her limp ceased.

She seemed, after the gesture, less aggressive, but no less adamant. “Do you have my jewel?”

“Yours?”

“Yes, it belongs to the auction house.” She advanced on him.

He weighed his options. “What’s so special about it that people would act like this?”

She grabbed his arm. Her grip was like being held by an animated statue. “Do you have it?”

He listened, and let the magical darkness vanish. The fighting seemed to have ceased. He reached into his satchel and removed the sapphire. He handed it to her. “I saw them descend upon you and I didn’t know what else to do, so I grabbed it. I was going to come around the other side of the house, hopefully after things had calmed, and return it.” He tilted his head. “This wasn’t what I came for.”

She looked over the jewel, set in gold wire. She looked back at him quizzically, as if trying to understand, but he could read it on her face like a book; drow were thieves and murderers. Her grip on his arm relaxed. “Thank you.”  
He shrugged out of her grasp. “You look unwell, my lady. Would you allow me to heal you?”

She nodded, slightly reluctant. He healed her more grievous wounds and helped to stop the bleeding. He walked with her back to the auction house. When they returned, blood was on the floor and the intellect devourer had been skewered. Tim was being questioned, but Tirowan and Eilora were gone. So, too, were the other guests. They had either used the opportunity to flee after their plans failed, or had been frightened away.

The auctioneer seemed irritated. “What a bust,” she muttered.

Aestith pointed at Tim. “I’m afraid that’s my mess. My lady, if you please?”

She gestured. “Release him.” She set the gem into a wooden box and flipped the lid closed. She frowned at Aestith. “You don’t know what the sapphire is?”

He shrugged. “Does it matter?”

She smiled warmly. “They say that it’s Poseidon's Tear.”

He laughed. “Do you believe it?”

“No, but enough people do.”

He shook his head. “It’s pretty.”

She handed the box to a guard. “Well, I noticed you hadn’t been bidding, so what did you really come for?”

He glanced at Tim, then said, “You have a set of armor from a cleric of Desmaduke.”

She smiled. “I do. Are you interested?”  
He nodded. “Yes.”

She looked around the ruined hall. “Well. I’ll be losing money storing it until I can arrange another auction. I’d be willing to let it go for the right offer now.”

“Five thousand gold,” he said.

She nodded in thought. “I could make more at auction, but I have to thank you for helping me somehow. Though I wish you’d been after the sapphire; I fear I’ll suffer many more such difficulties before I manage to sell it.” She beckoned him to follow her.

“Why is it so special?” he asked.

She opened a door. “A god’s tears are magical. A panacea for illnesses and disease, it has been said, maybe a key to immortality. I think it’s just a jewel. We’ve had it tested for magic, and have found nothing of value.”

“Then why is it called that?”

She rolled her eyes. “Some noble a number of centuries ago just wanted a fancy name for their fancy jewels. They claim that it’s part of a set, and it will grant some boon if you bring them all together. Problem is, the noble that had the whole set was assassinated, so a lot of good that brought him right?”  
“Some people will believe anything, I suppose.”

“Indeed.” She led Aestith past the auctioned items. The sold ones were in a roped off area, little tags on them. The armor was displayed on a mannequin and polished to gleaming. “I won’t ask what you’d want with it, but it is very pretty.”  
He smiled. “It is.” They made the exchange and he had her deliver the armor to his establishment and ordered a carriage to take him to the townhouse. Aestith was not able to slam the carriage door in Tim’s face before he climbed on.

Aestith banged on the side of the carriage. “Driver!”

The sliding panel opened. “Yes?”

“Change of plans. To the market, please.”

The carriage dropped them off and despite Aestith refusing to make further conversation with Tim, refusing to settle on a place for lunch, and all around being obstinate, Tim belligerently stuck around. Tim blathered throughout in blissful ignorance. Aestith barely tolerated this and milled around in shops. Tim followed until Aestith hopped into another carriage while Tim was speaking to a merchant and managed to get away. He got out a few blocks from Zelvier’s townhouse. The horse pulled it around, and it trotted off the other way.

The gatekeeper opened the gate for him. “Zelvier is in the garden. I’ll show you the way.” He closed and locked the gate. Aestith followed him along the garden path to the back of the house. The other said, “Have you considered going to Luskan? You might like it there better.”

Aestith scowled. “I’m doing fine.”

The other said, “You might not have to hide.”

Aestith glowered, but he didn’t know why he was surprised. Zelvier seemed like exactly the sort of person who bragged about their sexual conquests. Why should he have refrained from mentioning Aestith’s condition? Aestith had certainly never even hinted that Zelvier should keep it to himself. He would have thought that should be obvious though, so he couldn’t help his irritation.

“How was dinner last night?” the man asked.

Aestith’s irritation dwindled to a smirk. “I wouldn’t know.”

The man’s lips pressed together and Aestith imagined that he’d see the other’s face heat if it were dark. 

The back garden was much the same as the front--each flowering plant was poisonous. Zelvier stood on the back porch. He smiled when he saw Aestith and exhaled a plume of smoke from a long wooden pipe. “Eiranish hasn’t come back yet, so either you failed, or you return triumphant. Either occasion calls for wine.”

Aestith smiled and followed the other into the parlor. Zelvier had two goblets sitting out. He uncorked a bottle and poured. Aestith picked up the first goblet and drank deeply, waiting impatiently for Zelvier to finish pouring the second.

“How did it go?”

Aestith shrugged one shoulder. “One of my co-owners tried to make friends with a mindflayer, which was interesting. Said mindflayer attacked the establishment, everyone else left. You didn’t suspect something like this would happen, did you?”

He shrugged. “I was certain that you would handle yourself, and you proved yourself quite competent.”

“Things could have gone quite poorly for me.”

He glanced at Aestith, perhaps to estimate how irritated the cleric was. Zelvier said, “It would have been worse if I had gone with you.” He lifted his goblet to his lips. “I suppose you prefer I not spend my time preventing others from scrying on you or luring potential problems out of the way? I could have sent some of my men with you, but it would have pulled resources from elsewhere.” A pause. “Which would not have improved the situation.”

Pulled them from where? Probably moved the city guards away, for one. Could they have also kept the Desmaduke temple out of it? Aestith tilted his head. “The good news is that you don’t owe me more money.”

Zelvier frowned. “All of the five thousand then? That’s unfortunate. I’m not certain I’ll be around long enough for the insurance claim.”

“But worth not having guards after me,” Aestith said. He sipped the wine.

“It’s a price I was willing to pay.”

Aestith hated that damned hat he wore. He set the now-empty goblet down and plucked Zelvier’s goblet from his hand to set it beside his. He knocked the hat off of his head and it fell to the floor.

#

Aestith stood in front of the full-length mirror, clad in one of Zelvier’s hand-painted silk robes as he combed the tangles from his curls. The armor had been delivered, for lack of a better word, a few hours ago.

“Most drow have straight hair,” Zelvier mused.

“Does it surprise you that I’m an anomaly?”

A chuckle.

Aestith stared at the mirror, at Zelvier behind him. “Only one of my sisters had curly hair. We probably have the same sire, but it’s hard to say, given my mother’s habits.” He set the comb down and turned back to him. Zelvier was lighting his pipe. Aestith crawled into the bed beside him. Zelvier’s arm curled comfortably around his back.

“If we’re going to continue this, I suppose I should admit that Zelvier isn’t my real name. That’s a persona that I fabricated.” he said. He inhaled deeply, then expelled smoke. “It’s Xaiviryn Everh’lylraeth.”

Aestith’s brow furrowed. “Should that be relevant to me? Beyond what you’d prefer I cry out during sex?”

He smiled, as if amused, and shook his head. “No. I suppose not.”

Aestith made a face. “Xaiviryn. I must say, while I don’t especially care if you brag about getting into bed with me beyond that I find it immature, I do not appreciate your apparently graphic depictions of my body, if you understand me.”

Xaiviryn smirked. “Aestith. I hardly had to say anything.” He sucked on the pipe. “We stripped in the damned dining room and I carried you up the stairs.” Aestith smoldered. That trip up the stairs had not been a quick one, and it had hardly only been him carrying him. “I’m not the only one in the house at any given time, and you were were… well, preoccupied. It’s difficult to keep those kinds of secrets in a situation like that.”

Aestith sighed, pained, but it was his fault. “Oh, fuck right off.”

He snorted in amusement. “Did you think you were the only one?”

“The only drow cleric on the surface with both male and female parts? Yes, probably.”

He laughed. “I’ll grant you the cleric part.”

“Do you know them? These others like me?”

A long pause. “Not as… intimately, but yes.” He scowled. “He doesn’t like men.” Xaiviryn tilted his head, as if this genuinely offended him. “From my limited understanding, he may not be  _ entirely _ like you, but I believe it is a spectrum. I’ve never bothered to study the phenomenon.”

“Could you tell me his name? Where he is?”

A long pause. “I’ll see if he wants to meet you first.” He set the pipe aside. A hand traced Aestith’s cheek. He said, “Do you want to stay in Waterdeep?”

He opened his eyes. “No.”

“Come with me.”

Aestith hated him for suggesting it, for putting him into this position, and wanted him too badly to slap his hand away. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

He flinched. “I’m going to meet my sisters. In the Underdark. Perhaps if I survive… And if I come back, maybe I’ll contact you.”

Xaiviryn laughed, as if to ease the tension in the air. “Aestith, you could die.”

Neither said that it could be from the journey there, the journey back, or that he could be walking blindly into a trap and wouldn’t survive his sisters. Aestith knew all of that--knew, and was going anyway.

“I don’t have a choice,” he whispered. “I  _ have _ to go. Why would I stay with you, unless you can get me to the Underdark?”

As if pulling teeth, he said, “I can get you to the Underdark.”

“When?” Aestith raked his fingers through his hair then regretted the action when it tangled. “ I hate it here. I don’t belong here--on the  _ surface _ , not just Waterdeep. Everywhere on the surface is as bad as the next place. I  _ do not belong here _ . I’m a  _ cleric _ . And I don’t belong on the surface.”

Eyes flashed red, then cooled, but the heat crept into his voice, “They won’t accept you. You’ve been on the surface. You’re male.”

Aestith sat up and slapped him. “Look at me!” he snapped. He reached a hand out, tenderly, and healed the bruise he had caused, his eyes soft. “If Lolth thinks I’m worthy enough to give me this power, why am I not worthy to go home and make it official?”

The other sighed and sat up. “Because your elder sisters will kill you.”

Aestith shook his head. “I don’t believe they will.” He lifted his head. “None of them are clerics. Not a one. We’re not nobles either. I’m their only stepping stone toward earning rank and title. Do you think they would kill me? Do you think anyone would be stupid enough to cut off their fingers to spite their hand? Why?”

He stared flatly. “Jealousy. Hate. Seeing their status and rank in the family fall to a younger brother, no less.” He set the pipe down on the nightstand.

Aestith grabbed the other’s shoulders. “How can you look at me and call me male?”

The other’s hand slid between Aestith’s legs. Aestith flinched, then gasped. Xaiviryn pushed Aestith onto his back. “This is how.” Then, he stopped, and pinned Aestith to the bed by his wrists. He kissed his neck, and whispered, “You can’t push me up. You have the body of a male drow, Aestith. You might have a female’s shape, in places, but you’re small, and you’re weak of arm as any male drow I’ve met.”

Aestith turned his head and bit him, then brought his knee between the other’s legs. They fought, wrestled. Xaiviryn forced Aestith, struggling, down. He whispered, “And you keep losing to a male, Aestith.”

“I let you win,” Aestith whispered. “I want you to fuck me, so I let you win.”

“Do you?” He kissed Aestith’s cheek. “Come home with me.”

“Where’s home?”

Xaiviryn pulled back and let Aestith up. “Usually Neverwinter--changing seasons are bothersome--but sometimes Luskan when I’m bored or tired of the charade.”

Aestith frowned. “I own property here. I’m… I plan on going to the Underdark to contact my sisters.”

“That sounds like a good way to die.”

Aestith was silent a moment. “I don’t think so. I’m a cleric. They’re not.”

“That’s not going to stop them. Nor does it make the journey there any easier.”

He sighed, and hated that the other had a point. “Why do you want me to come with you?”

Xaiviryn looked at Aestith, drinking him in with his eyes. “I gather wayward drow.”

Aestith sneered. “I won’t be added to a collection, Xaiviryn. Besides, hats ruin my hair.”

He shrugged. “Then don’t join my crew. You can stay in my villa.”

Aestith looked at his hands. He didn’t want Xaiviryn to leave. He  _ wanted _ to go with him. He wanted to be with him. He didn’t want to stay on the surface though. “I’ve little interest in being at your beck and call, as much as you’d enjoy that.”

He was silent. Aestith could almost see the thoughts forming. Aestith knew, without reading the other’s mind even if he didn’t know that spell, what the other saw in Aestith. A good lay, maybe, but that was far from it. Aestith was a cleric, and his mere existence would keep the other drow under his thumb. Keeping the drow Xaiviryn had as underlings had to be like herding cats. You could put them in a long hallway with catnip at one end, but there was no guarantee that even half of them would go in a straight line. Aestith simply being a cleric would help. Would it help, though? Would they even respect Aestith, knowing he was as male as he was?

Aestith frowned in thought. If Aestith were entirely male, and knew there was a cleric with a body such as Aestith’s present one, how would Aestith feel? Empowered, he imagined. Filled with wonder and awe that a mere male-born drow could ascend so. At least, he liked to think that, but he didn’t know. He wanted to ask the other, but was concerned it would come off as naive, young-sounding. He didn’t want to remind Xaiviryn of exactly how young Aestith was. Or sound as if he were fishing for compliments or praise.

Xaiviryn rolled over Aestith. “You doing anything today?”

Aestith grinned. “Something.”

“It can wait, then.”

Later, when Aestith’s legs were aching and both of them had other things they might need to accomplish, he said, “I really have to be going.”

Xaiviryn responded, “I have things I need to do today as well.”

Aestith paused. “Is it a full moon tonight?” He hesitated. “Tell your lackeys to stay out of the Southward. There are lycanthropes.”

“Good to know.” Xaiviryn gently plucked a lock of hair from a tangle on Aestith’s head. He pulled it out straight as if testing its length and watched it bounce back when he released it. “I’ve heard you’re having some trouble with a tavern owner.”

“Emerick?” Aestith snorted. “That’s no secret.”

He nodded. “What if he were to go away?”  
Aestith smiled. “Xaiviryn, what I’d really like is for him to be ruined and broken. He doesn’t need to die, because then he can’t continue to suffer.”

Xaiviryn’s lips pulled into a satisfied smirk. “That will take time, but I’m sure something could be arranged.”

Aestith’s smile turned to a grin. He squirmed and rolled to face the other. “I thought you needed to do something today. Keep on like this, and neither of us will.” Aestith tilted his head to kiss him.

Aestith stayed long enough to fix his hair and clean himself up, then he went to the brothel to change. Tim mentioned that his armor had never arrived, and Aestith made some vocalizations about going to the auction house, which he would need to do for the sake of appearances though not today. 

Tim commented, “Aestith, do you know how to reanimate a hand?”

“A disembodied hand?”

“Yes, do you know where I could get one?”

Aestith sighed. He motioned for Tim to follow him. Aestith grabbed Tim’s wrist and set it down on the chopping block. He reached for the cleaver. Tim jerked back in alarm. “No! I mean, I want to be able to control it afterwards. And maybe not my hand. Like a dragonborn hand or something.”

The cleric stared at him blankly. “Tim. That falls into the realm of wizardry. I am not a wizard.”

“But you can animate undead, right? I thought you were a necromancer.”

“No, I am a cleric.” He trotted up the stairs to his room. He tied his hair into a loose braid and bound his breasts until he looked masculine. He wore men’s clothing and left his face unadorned. When he emerged, the house was quiet and the others had gone. From there, he traveled to the Southward.

He had to divine an answer from Lolth, and she only responded to one thing.

 


	23. Divination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should preface this chapter with a warning... but I'm not going to. Enjoy!

The boards he had loosened swung to the side at his touch and Aestith ducked through the opening. He rounded the corner to the back of the warehouse. The cellar door sported a new lock. Aestith knelt to pick the lock. It sprang open with a click. He opened the door and climbed in. The furniture Aestith had abandoned had been shoved to one side to make space for some musty boxes, but it was mostly empty. Aestith spent some time moving a few items around and chalking an outline, then crawled out of the cellar. He threw the chain back around it and set the lock, but didn’t latch it.

The orphanage was busy. Meredith had the children making decorations for some surface holiday out of flowers they had dried and strips of colored cloth. He inquired as to the other children, the goings-on, then finally asked about the sick boy.

This seemed to be the source of Meredith’s concerns. “I just can’t leave the children to take him to a temple, but I think he needs a healer. He’s only gotten worse.”  
“How is he behaving?”

She shook her head. “He’s incredibly ill. His hair has gotten shaggy and his teeth look… sharp. He’s become feral when he eats.”

The boy hadn’t turned just yet at least. He needed to be put down before he became a problem anyway. It might as well be beneficial. “Did you restrain him?”

“Restrain him?” She seemed alarmed.

Aestith frowned. “You said he was feral? I’m sorry, Common isn’t my first tongue, so maybe I misunderstood?”

She nodded, then elaborated, “He will take the bowl from me and run to a corner. He hunches over it and eats a bit savagely, but he doesn't actually strike me or anything.”

“Oh, I see.” He paused. “May I see him?”

She left the other children and brought Aestith to see the boy. He was sweating a small pond into the heavy blankets, yet still shivering. His hair was coarse. The boy opened his mouth to groan his pain. His teeth were pointed. When Aestith peeled back a blanket to check the boy’s hands, the fingernails were hardened, turning black. He covered the hand again. “Meredith, I think he needs to be taken to a temple. I understand that you haven’t been able to leave the children to do it yourself, but perhaps I can help. Now, I can’t carry him myself, but do you have a wheelbarrow?”

She nodded in understanding. “I can get one.”

“I’ll watch the children,” he offered.

She smiled, her eyes shining with gratitude. The other children, once Meredith left, began to grow rowdy, but Aestith put a quick end to that with a crossbow bolt fired at a wall. They went quiet, and quickly went back to their crafts. He pried the bolt from the wall.

Meredith returned some time later. He requested that she help him carry the boy down the stairs to the wheelbarrow. Aestith kept him buried in the blankets and hurried away.

He had to bide his time on a corner as he waited for someone to pass by. He wished he had bothered to convince Meredith that the boy might need a set of manacles. How was he going to get the kid through that fence?

He wheeled the boy over to the fence, spaced several feet back from the street, and considered, briefly, his plight, then he brightened. He laid out the satchel of holding, opened and spread over the ground. He tipped the wheelbarrow into it.

It was too heavy. He might have some of the parts of a woman, but he was male all the same, and the wheelbarrow and the boy were too heavy. He heaved, and it tipped, the wrong way. The boy, in alarm, fought, fell on the stone beside the bag, and turned to run. Aestith’s fingers snagged the boy’s sweat-stained clothes. The boy flailed, broke free in his panic.

Aestith reached out a hand and cast a spell to hold the boy. The boy pitched forward, caught. He screamed. Aestith ran toward him and dropped the satchel over the boy, scooping him neatly into the bag.

He didn’t notice the wide-eyed man until he had the boy in the satchel. Aestith stared at him. “The kid is a lycanthrope. He’s dangerous.” None of which was untrue. Even the guard would have put the boy down, just as they had done with Zack. Why not have him put down to a higher purpose?

“Uh-huh. What are you doing with it, drow?”

Aestith hesitated. “I’ll give you one hundred gold to forget what you saw.”

They were alone on the narrow street. The man looked at the bag, looked at Aestith. He held out his hand. Aestith dropped the money into his waiting hands. The man stowed his newfound wealth and started to turn. Aestith stepped back, and cast Darkness on the man’s shoes. He dashed down the street, away from where the man had seen him come from, and ducked around the corner. He lost concentration on the spell purposefully, and strolled into his old guild. He made a show of looking at the bulletin board, humming and hawing, then sauntered back down the street.

The man was gone. Aestith’s heart pounded in his ears. He found the wheelbarrow where he had left it. He squeezed past the gate, and back into the alley. He opened the cellar door and closed it behind him. The boy needed to breathe, so Aestith cast a spell of silence, and brought him out. The boy was gasping, half-suffocated when he did, and terribly ill. Clapping the manacles on him was a simple task. Aestith stuffed him back in the bag, and made a few other preparations. 

He drug the infected, hazardous boy out of the bag with one hand, and with the other brought the sacrificial dagger down.

He focused on one question as the dagger plunged into the boy’s tender flesh:  _ Queen of Spiders, three paths lie before me. In which may I best serve you? _

His eyes rolled to the back of his head and he fell beside the sacrifice. He was aware of his own body, but it was dim as he spiraled away from it. He could see a dead plagued body of a human and a drow breathing shallowly, then his vision bled and fogged.

He stood at a crossroad, deep in the Underdark. He looked down one path and saw himself on a surface city street. He handed a bag to Adam, and Adam turned and handed a bag to another child, and it passed onwards, a rippling cascade expanding over the street, flowing into the city.

He turned his head. The vision that greeted him was of Amalette. Her face was stoic as she accepted the bloodmoss. His fingers kept itching toward a weapon, and he felt threatened.

He turned from it to the last passage. His hand was around Xaiviryn’s muscled arm. He could feel the linen under his skin. Below them, chaos reigned in the streets. The temple of Desmaduke burned.

The vision ended and he fell back into his body. He twitched and blinked, staring at the unseeing eyes of the boy. Aestith peeled himself from the floor, shaken.

He didn’t know what he had expected when he asked Lolth such a question, but he hadn’t expected  _ that _ . His fingers trembled and he shook as he picked up the satchel

His heart pounded and emotions that were usually so distant and obscure poured through his veins.

His eyes watered with hurt and longing, with a joy he so rarely felt, and wished he could keep. His throat was dry and his lips parched. He swiped at his eyes, surprised when it was wet. 

He stumbled from the cellar, into the open air. The wind lifted stray hair and brushed his cheeks, cold and unnatural. His head swam. He stopped barely long enough to lock the cellar again, and found his way back to the brothel. He took little notice of the world around him.

He had asked, and Lolth had answered. No, she had done more than that. She hadn’t given him some cryptic message or impossible riddle. She had given him plain answers he could understand. She had shown him what would happen. She hadn’t exactly answered the question, but she had given him so much more than he had ever asked.

He dropped into a seat in the common area of the brothel. The house was quiet in the middle of the day, with no one around.

Alone in a dark room with the shades drawn, the door locked, he shook and a tear spilled from his grey eyes. Not a petulant frustration or tears of pain, but something from either relief or a profound feeling of unworthiness.

The goddess had responded when he called.

She  _ had _ spoken to him when he was 14 and lost and delirious. He hadn’t imagined that. She had guided him all this time. She came to him now when he felt lost, and given him so much more than he had ever asked of her. 

The flood of emotions hurt and left him raw.

He wept.

#

By sunset, Aestith had still not moved from the chair. No one paid him much heed as they came and went, but it was more or less empty. Eilora trotted down the stairs and spotted Aestith. She said, “Hey, Aestith. There are supposed to be some more doppelgangers in the Yawning Portal. I was going to see if I could find them and convince them to leave. Do you know how to do that?”

“Have you tried asking them nicely?” he asked.

She scowled. He went with her; he could use a drink. He didn’t realize until he was halfway there that he had neglected to change back into his regular attire. By then, it was too late, and he didn’t care enough anyway. Because it was a bar, Kairon, Tim, and Deekin met them there. Deekin brought along Gil, insisting it would be educational.

Gil sat at the bar while the adults discussed the doppelgangers, and the possibility that they were connected to the previous attack on the brothel. The bartender gave Gil a mug of milk and said, “You ever kill a man just to watch him die?”

Gil, by now, was unphased by this. He replied, “You ever raid a catacomb of undead with five drow--that are on your side?”

The bartender grinned and topped off Gil’s milk.

Getting rid of the doppelgangers was as easy as finding them--not a difficult feat when Aestith saw them correct a malformed ear--and bribing them to leave. Deekin did the actual talking and bribing to solve Eilora’s problem. This was heralded by a round of drinks. Aestith went to the privy to unbind his breasts so the wrapping was no longer restricting his breathing. The relief was immediate. He returned to his drink, but despite that he knew the other’s drunken antics should be entertaining, he wasn’t entertained. The emotions had came and went and left him feeling emptier than he had been before. Eventually, the feeling would fade but in the time being, he wanted to ignore it.

He stared at the table, and used Sending.  _ Are you doing anything important, or would you like a distraction? _

Xaiviryn’s response was punctual.  _ I could use a distraction. _

On the way out of the docks, he heard footsteps behind him, in boots. He at first thought it might be Adam or perhaps Zanisernix, but it was a gruff human male. Not Brass Monkey either.

“Drop your purse and you’ll live,” the man said.

Aestith’s eyes narrowed and he opened his palm. The dark city streets were illuminated by the created dim light. He wanted the man to understand what he was doing. “Back off.”

“No one will miss one more drow.”

Aestith smiled.

The man was right; no one would. Not even other drow. Not Arcedi, not Xaiviryn or any of his crew. Not his co-owners. Not his sisters. Certainly not Lolth. It was why his life mattered to him. It was why he clung to it so fiercely; it mattered only to him.

Aestith struck first with a cantrip, and the man advanced quickly. He was fast, a dagger in one hand, a shortsword in the other. He found chinks in Aestith’s armor, the blades sinking into flesh. Blood stained his clothes. Aestith struck back, powered by a thrill in what should have been a simple street thug, but this one knew how to fight. He could scarcely parry back blows and match them with his own. His devotion powered each swing, and each time his rapier pierced flesh, the wound seemed to fester. Aestith’s eyes glowed wickedly in the dark. Blood spilled on the ground and filled his ears with a distant roar.

He felt his slender, frail mortal body weaken, and he struck once, viciously through the thug’s throat. He drew back with a slice and the man fell. Aestith panted, touched his own chest and healed the worst of his wounds. He poked the rapier through the bandit’s eye, just to be certain, and checked him over. He had a small coin purse, and a patch from some kind of gang. Aestith cut the patch off and took the purse. He left the body in the street.

He could have died in that fight, he reminded himself. Lolth’s chosen, perhaps, but she would have let him die if he were foolhardy enough to let it happen. This was to remind him that she might like him, but he wasn’t invulnerable. She might favor him, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t knock him low if it pleased her. He respected the lesson as a deserved one.

_ Why am I always coming all the way here to him? _ The privacy, mostly. He would probably prefer Xaiviryn not come to the brothel, because he’d never hear the end of it from his associates. There was also that Tim had practically invited a mindflayer to the brothel. That it kept getting attacked. Any number of reasons, really, that Aestith was generally safer here. And more at home. At least here, he understood the way everyone around him thought.

Though there was something to be said about bringing Xaiviryn to the Skullport room.

Xaiviryn was sitting on the front porch when Aestith arrived, smoking his pipe. He grinned and said, “You look like shit.”

“You want to see if you can make me look worse?” Aestith grabbed his shirt and less than gently pulled him inside. Xaiviryn winked broadly at the gatekeeper.

“You look cute as a boy,” Xaiviryn said, eyes far below Aestith’s face as he followed him up the stairs. The bedroom door shut behind him.

Aestith glared at him and plucked the pipe from his hands. He snuffed it out with a thaumaturgic spell and set it aside. “I’ve always thought I looked better presenting female,” Aestith mused, helping the other drow out of his clothes.

Xaiviryn’s lips found his neck, tongue traced along his ear. “You do.” Fingers worked over buckles to remove the armor. It clunked when it hit the carpeted floor. “Shows off your tits better. Accentuates the way your hips sway. But the view of your ass in these trousers…”

Aestith couldn’t bear it any more and fought out of the rest of the armor, scraping off the clothes and boots. They used every piece of furniture as a prop or a brace, then did it again. Against Aestith’s better judgment, and against his previous trends, he fell asleep.

He woke when the bed shifted, suddenly cooler. Aestith’s eyes fluttered briefly, watched Xaiviryn sit, naked in the chair. Morning sun filtered from the window, and the other was so used to it that it didn’t seem to bother him. The light played off of his beautifully dark skin, creating hues of purple and blue, like Arcedi’s tattoo on a dark canvas instead of white.

A knife cut into an apple.

Aestith heard a voice from his discarded clothing on the floor. The sending stone! He went to it and picked it up.

“Aestith?” Eilora’s voice.

He sighed. “Yes?”

“Did you kill a kid?”

He stared blankly ahead. Someone had found the body.  _ Why hadn’t he done anything with the body? _ How hard would it have been to make the child undead? How hard would it have been to just shove it in his satchel and dump it somewhere? Why had he left it  _ there _ ? Idiot! He dropped the sending stone into his satchel, pulled it closed tightly. He dropped the satchel back into his pile of clothing and took a long, deep breath. When that didn’t calm him, he took another. He screamed, “Fuck!”

Xaiviryn glanced toward him, but said nothing.

Aestith pinched the bridge of his nose and began pacing back and forth. If someone had already found it and Eilora knew, it was in the papers. Which meant that not only had journalists found it, but the city watch had. And if Eilora had connected it to Aestith, they already suspected drow. He should have killed that bystander instead of bribed him. No, it was more likely the spiderweb on the floor. He needed to find out where they took the body. He needed to cut out the tongue before they could bother to perform the spell to speak with the dead. Why hadn’t he done that?

Arcedi could probably break in and do it, if Aestith could just find out where the body was. Probably the Watch? They’d take it to the Temple of Tyr, no doubt.

Aestith stretched, then sighed. “About last night…”

“Hm?”

“Yesterday, I had a vision from Lolth.”

The steady movements of the knife ceased. His bare feet slid off of the mahogany table and onto the floor. His sat rigid with attention. Aestith was quiet a moment, then said, “If I choose to stay in Waterdeep, I can continue to grow my more nefarious enterprises.” The other’s brow twitched in thought, but he said nothing. Aestith continued, “If I go to see my sisters presently instead, my future is precarious. And… I’m not certain of what you are planning with the temple of Desmaduke, but in my vision, I stood beside you and watched it burn.”

Xaiviryn’s pale blue eyes seemed to sparkle like light refracted through crystal.

Aestith continued, “The vision came at a cost that I am sorry to say I botched.”

“Oh?”

Aestith made a face. “I killed a human child. An orphan. I was not in a state to think clearly after the vision, and unfortunately, I left the body. I believe it was discovered.”

Xaiviryn did not seem surprised, only disappointed. “Really?”

“I fucked up. I know it was stupid.”

Xaiviryn reached toward the bowl of fruit and plucked something out. He offered Aestith a banana. Aestith took it and stared at the yellow peel.

“The guard, incompetent as they are, already suspect drow.”

Xaiviryn snorted. “Sloppy.”

Aestith glowered. “I already said it was idiotic.”

He went back to the apple he had been cutting into. “I suppose I’ll add bribing the guard to my list of things to do today.”

Aestith stilled. He felt oddly warm, like he was floating in a warm bath. A coy smile graced his lips. He went to the table and dropped the banana back in the bowl. He sunk to his knees. Aestith was quite determined that they would accomplish very little that day.

At some point, Xaiviryn had to, with great reluctance, leave. Aestith made this increasingly more difficult by climbing into the bath with him and harassing him while he tried to get dressed. “I have to go bribe the guard at some point,” Xaiviryn reminded Aestith.

Aestith made a face, but what finally worked to dissuade the cleric was donning that damned hat that made him, in Aestith’s view, instantly less attractive. Aestith snorted and left him be. “I may go back to my brothel then. It would allow you to be slightly more productive if I’m not around.”

The other seemed oddly torn by this notion. He moved back toward Aestith, hands rested on the familiar curve of Aestith’s hips. He bent his head to Aestith’s ear and whispered, “I can book you passage to Neverwinter.”

Aestith traced the other’s collarbone with a fingertip. “I’ll think about it.” He wondered how much of that was because Aestith was a perfect sex toy, and how much of it was that Aestith, as quite possibly the only cleric of Lolth on the surface, made an excellent ally. Having a cleric around wouldn’t hurt. Having a cleric like Aestith would, now that Aestith thought about it, be inspiring to a male drow. Why else would he keep offering? And why else was he going to go bribe the guard?

The other started to draw back, seemed to consider, and brushed Aestith’s lips gently with his. Anything deeper and neither would be leaving the room any time soon.

#

The others were just getting ready to leave by the time Aestith arrived. “Aestith, where have you been?” Deekin boomed. “I need your help with something.” He went to the basement briefly and emerged carrying the deflated body of a beholderkin. Aestith grimaced. Deekin walked over to Aestith.

Aestith blinked. “Yes?”

He raised the body of the beholderkin. “Tirowan and I went on an epic adventure and slayed this. I want to turn it into a set of bagpipes.”

Aestith blinked slowly. The bagpipes couldn’t be worse than his berimbau, and it would certainly be more stylish, with the added bonus of preventing him from singing. “So you need someone to keep it from rotting. Yes, I can assist with that.” He reached out a hand and touched it with a spell to stave off the rot. “I suppose we’ll need to find a wizard and someone who can craft instruments next.”

“Do you know anyone?”

He glanced at Tirowan. “I assume she can’t?”  
Tirowan scoffed. “I should think not!”

He nodded and his eyes flicked to Deekin. He began to say that he didn’t, then he thought of Xaiviryn. “I might know someone. I’ll find out.”

He grinned. “Excellent. Thank you, Aestith.” He trotted off to hang the dead beholderkin in his room from the ceiling.

“We got a lead on that necromancer while you were gone,” Eilora said.

“Necromancer?” he said slowly.

Kairon rolled his eyes. “Catacombs full of undead. That necromancer.”

He sighed. “We’re still on about that?”

Dee said, “You want in or not?”

“Sure, but I want to drop off something at the alchemist before we go.”

Eilora’s eyes narrowed, and she went with Aestith across the street. She bought a couple of potions and Aestith discussed with the wood elf alchemist what could be done with a few ingredients he had procured some time ago until they came to an agreement on the type of potion and a price.

Eilora milled about and talked for a short while and Aestith waited for her on the street. “Eilora? I have a question,” Aestith began.

She braced herself. “Okay.”

He frowned. “The alchemist. Fala. Is there a particular reason that they go by ‘they’ instead of, say, ‘he’ or ‘she’?”  
Eilora shrugged. “It’s just an elf thing.”

Aestith tried to conceal his disappointment. “I see. Thanks.” They were meeting with some paladin or other at the Temple of Kelemvor, which spurred half of the party to meet them at the City of the Dead, and the other half to go to the temple.

Aestith milled about the gates with Kairon, Tim, and Dee while the others ran about their errand. Aestith bristled when he saw them coming back, with a heavily armored paladin.

They said something to the others before they were quite in earshot. Aestith shaded his eyes as he caught the tail end of it on the other’s lips,  _ … that’s a drow, right? _

Eilora replied,  _ She’s fine. She’s with us. _

_ Do you trust her? _

_ No, but she’s been fine so far. _

Aestith rolled his eyes. The paladin introduced himself, very distinctly to Kairon and the two warlocks and not to Aestith, as “Ser Ambrose Everdawn”, before he unlocked the gates. They filed into yet another crypt.

“Where did you get this lead from, Eilora?” Aestith whispered to her.

She said, “A cat.”

He wished he hadn’t asked.

“Come out!” Ambrose shouted. His voice echoed down the hall. “Evil-doers beware!” He banged his shield against the wall. It lit and shed a bright light that made Aestith flinch. Kairon seethed with jealousy.

Ambrose knocked his visor down, and Tim eyed the helmet the way most people eye bacon. Kairon and Ambrose came clanking down the stairs, one of them shouting in an attempt to draw out undead. Aestith observed Ambrose wading in among wandering undead, dealing out hits and smashing in skulls. Kairon moved to the other side of the room, either to draw out more undead, or to keep from treading in the other’s wake. Aestith wandered up the center. Undead were what Aestith knew.

Enainsi, as a matter of course, kept undead slaves for as long as they were useful. The Underdark had so few resources, it was unwise to squander a working body. Aestith was oddly comfortable with the undead. They were simple creatures, and easily turned. These ones would fall and often as not rise again, but they were simple to put down with a good blow to the skull.

When the room was cleared, they poked around a few side rooms, most of which lead nowhere. One small antechamber connected to a passage that opened up to a room with a few tattered books and a desk. Aestith did not get there in time to stop Ambrose from building a fire with the ruined books.

“What are you doing?” Tirowan wailed.

The paladin slammed a diary down on the desk. “This is blasphemy! It must be destroyed.”

Aestith’s jaw dropped. “But that could tell us something useful!” It could have been evidence that this was the same person who they had stolen the bloodmoss from.

“Can’t risk it.”

Tirowan fumed. “There might be something in there though.”

“Only evil.”

“Can’t you let us at least look?” Tim suggested.

Ambrose shook his head adamantly, breaking the chair into serviceable firewood. He tossed it into the small pile he had built and lit it. “Not worth your immortal soul.”

The three watched in smoldering silence as Ser Ambrose Everdawn tossed a book into the fire. Aestith muttered in Elvish to Tirowan, “That could have been useful for both of us.”

She nodded agreement and responded in Elvish, “What a pissant.”

Tim tilted his head and glanced back down the hallway. “We could just kill him,” he said, also in Elvish.

Ambrose gave no indication of having understood the three of them. Aestith said, “Hold on to that thought.”

Ambrose whispered prayers over the fire and when it burned itself out, he scattered the ashes before he loudly announced that it was time to slay an “unholy fiend”. Kairon lifted his head at this use of terms, realized Ambrose didn’t mean himself, and wandered after the other up the stairs.

“If there is a necromancer, he’s going to be well-prepared for us,” Dee muttered.

A prophetic statement, if a halfling were to ever have one; an undead minotaur waited around the corner at the top of a narrow and steep set of stairs. Ambrose charged in to meet it immediately and Kairon ran in beside him. Eilora was able to shoot at it, but the others were more bottlenecked in the hallway, listening to the sounds of battle. Then a new voice, casting spells--the necromancer.

Aestith cast Silence. This pissed off the warlocks and Tirowan, but it probably helped deal with the necromancer, so Aestith considered it to be mostly beneficial. When those in front of him started filing into the corridor, he followed. Tentatively, he dropped concentration in favor of hearing things.

He passed the burned and scorched body of Ser Ambrose with a frown. The door at the end of the hall was shut. A zombie lurched down another doorway. Aestith struck with his whip, trapping it in the door. Another one behind it reached around, but couldn’t squeeze past. He kept it still while Eilora and Deekin whittled the ones behind it, then he finished the first. The door opened and Kairon emerged, looking pleased with himself.

“I just killed a necromancer. What were you doing?” he said, then he peered around the party at the broken corpse of Ser Everdawn.

Tim reached down and removed Everdawn’s helmet. “Yep, he’s dead, guys.” He dropped the helmet into his pack.

Kairon shrugged and removed Everdawn’s shield, then considered. “Actually, uh… Aestith, Tim said you had a bag of holding? Can you throw this in there?”

“Sure.” Aestith spread out the bag enough to drop the shield into it, then he replaced the bag. Eilora looked on in horror.

“He’s carrying a lot of armor. How are we gonna get him to his temple?” Tim said.

Kairon crossed his arms indignantly. “I am not carrying him out.”

Aestith shrugged. “I can just raise him as a zombie. He can walk out of here.”

“Does he have any money?” Dee said, reaching toward the body.

Eilora leaped over him, standing with one foot to either side of the body. “What is wrong with all of you?” she demanded. “No! We are not doing this! I will shoot anyone who tries to mess with Ser Everdawn’s body! He was a brave and noble man. The kind of person everyone should aspire to be.”

Tirowan said, “Well. He died doing what he loved.”

Cakecake growled at her. Tirowan sniffed and went to check the necromancer’s corpse, disappointed to find no writings or notes. Aestith looked at the necromancer’s face with some dismay; it wasn’t the same one that had been with Sylvia after she became a wraith.

Deekin carried the late Ser Everdawn from the crypt and bore him all the way to the Temple. Aestith tagged along for the promise of a reward and little else. Deekin carried the body up the steps and laid it down in the dying light of the day where he bewailed the fate of Ser Ambrose Everdawn to the members of the church. He sang an impromptu ballad of Ser Ambrose’s bravery, how he fell in battle with a mighty undead minotaur and a perilous necromancer, how the flames consumed him as he sacrificed himself to save strangers.

By the expression on Tim’s face, Aestith assumed that the fireball that had ultimately killed him had in fact not been from the necromancer. 

The clerics of Kelemvor seemed to find the song particularly moving. Some were openly weeping, maybe from the song or from the passing of a friend. They didn’t even ask about the helm or shield, and invited Eilora and Deekin to attend the funeral.

Eilora wandered off afterwards, presumably to cool down after what had happened. The others found a tavern and had a round of drinks.

Tirowan, with a glass of wine down, went off to dance while Deekin played. Tim reminded them to advertise for the brothel and settled in. Dee left early.

Kairon and Tim exchanged a nod that Aestith found to be suspicious, and the two turned toward Aestith. Kairon took a breath. “Aestith. There’s no easy way to say this, but we need to know if you’re double-crossing us.”

“What?”

Kairon’s stare could bore a hole through a wall. “Are you cutting the brothel out of funds? Cooking the books?”

Aestith puzzled over the phrase for a moment while he attempted to translate it in his head to Undercommon, then he shook his head. “No.”

Tim sighed. “Aestith, there’s no use denying it. Impy saw you ‘wrestling’ with someone.”

Aestith stared at them blankly. That warlock bastard had sent the imp to spy on him. When? How long ago? Had they seen Arcedi or Xaiviryn? “Has it occurred to you that I’m not a courtesan, and as such I am not obligated to sign our courtesan contracts?”

Kairon nodded. “That’s true.” He glanced at Tim. “Tim, you said that you thought Aestith was cheating the brothel out of money?”

“Well, potentially. Aestith had five thousand gold to buy armor with from an auction. He got it from somewhere.”

The drow twitched. “That was unrelated.”

“Aestith, where’d you get the money from?” Kairon pressed.

“Wasn’t my money. Someone paid me to get something. So I did. Obviously, it didn’t go well, but it’s not my problem.”

“Was it the same guy Impy saw you ‘wrestling’ with?”

Aestith drained his cup.

“Have you thought about charging for services instead?”

“Fuck off, Kairon.”

“I’m just saying, you could be making a lot of money.”

Aestith’s temper flared.

Tim jumped. “Holy shit!”

Kairon rolled his eyes. “Oh, she does that with magic. I can do it too.” He used a cantrip to turn his eyes red, then blinked and they went back to green. “See?”

The cleric shot him a glare. “Mine do it on their own.”  
Kairon raised an eyebrow. “Mm-hm. Sure they do.” He mouthed to Tim, “It’s all show.”

“Excuse me.” Aestith marched from the table.

Kairon tilted his head. Aestith did not miss how his eyes lingered on Aestith’s behind. The tiefling said to Tim, “She really could be making money if she didn’t give it away for free, you know.”

“Oh, I agree. We’re nearly in the red.”

Aestith’s eyes blazed crimson.


	24. Affairs

Kairon discovered, the next day, that the shield was useless to him unless he wanted to convert to worship Kelemvor. He sold the shield to Aestith.

Eilora still had not come back by evening, and Deekin was off with Gil. Dee disappeared before opening time. Generally, the brothel could run itself well enough with their employees, but they still liked to have a hand in it. Or at least, most everyone did.

Xaiviryn informed Aestith that the wizard he knew was willing to do a favor for a cleric, and would meet with Deekin. Aestith protested that it wasn’t a favor to himself, but Xaiviryn waved the matter aside. “Would it help you?”

“A magically enchanted bagpipe that would get the dragonborn bard to stop playing a berimbau? Yes, yes it would.”

He sent Aestith the contact information and Aestith considered going with Deekin, but he had some errands of his own that day, so only passed it off to Deekin. He almost felt sorry for the wizard.

Arcedi came by and Aestith put aside his candy-making operations for a brief reprieve before the two of them discussed business.

Arcedi picked at his hair. With the random braids and odd dreadlocks, it wasn’t something he could brush. “So that errand you sent me on.” He frowned. “I broke into that noble’s house.”  
Aestith lifted his head and sat up. “I never would have asked you to do that.”

He rolled his eyes. “This toff walks around with jeweled shoes. I can’t help meself.”

“What did you find?”

He made a face. “At first? Nothing. But they’re… really shady, Aestith.”

“The affair?”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, the affair. Their lovesick daughter. It’s sad really.”

“Sort of classic story you’d find in any novel?”

He snorted. “More or less. That’s not even interesting, innit. It’s the parents that concern me. They… They’re creepy. Totally normal looking. Act totally normal most of the time. Then I find this room, right? It’s a hidden door in the library, but that’s a cliche; it opens into a children’s playroom. From there, there’s another secret entrance--trick was the paintings by the way. It leads down a set of stairs and there’s a ritual chamber in it, right? There are manacles on the altar. And I’m pretty sure they’re bloody cannibals.”

Aestith was silent a long moment. “Fascinating. Do you have proof?”

“I took a candle.”

Aestith stilled. “What?”

He rolled his eyes. “Well, I’m not gonna nick their spellbook, but I did flip through it. I don’t understand much of it, of course, but it looks nasty.” He went to his discarded clothing and removed something from his pack. Arcedi had been robbing houses a long time, and had commissioned a long cut of thick velvet with several thicker pouches and pockets that kept the stolen goods from clinking together. The candle was in one of them. He removed it.

Aestith picked it up. The candle was unremarkable, in the Underdark anyway. The tallow was a high quality, and it was expertly carved into an anguished human face. Probably, the fat was from something that could have spoken back and complained about its fat being removed in such a way. Aestith wrapped himself in a thin robe and covered his face before he excused himself and went up the stairs of his tower. He unlocked the chest of bloodmoss with a combination lock and dropped the candle into the chest. He locked it and went back downstairs.

“How long have you had the candle?”

“Maybe two hours.”

He had stolen it, left immediately, and came straight here then. “Good. So—”

Someone knocked at the door. Arcedi sidestepped out of view of it and Aestith wrapped the robe more tightly about himself. He meandered toward the door and opened it enough to see.

Kairon glared down in the dark at Aestith. “Aestith. You never do anything. You’re always up here or out instead of running the brothel. We’re busy tonight and I want some time to myself for once, so you can come down and work.”

“What? Why do I need to do anything? That’s why we pay Stoutbrew and Hogpen.”

“Well, this guy is really demanding. He literally bought every courtesan and he’s demanding cakes and chocolates, and Gil ate it all this morning--anyway, can you help or not?”

“Just tell him no,” Aestith said flatly.

“He’s a really high-paying guest.”

“It’s almost midnight. There are no bakeries open. Tell him his demands are ridiculous. He’ll get over it.”

“Just get off your ass and help us out,” Kairon said.

Aestith rolled his eyes and said, “Give me a minute. I need to get dressed.”

After Kairon had gone, Arcedi said in a mixture of Common and Undercommon, “You look in a foul mood, innit.”  
Aestith sighed. “I’m more irritated that they can’t figure this shit out on their own.” He had really needed to make some more candy tonight too, and he had more questions for Arcedi.  Aestith dressed, as did Arcedi. Arcedi stayed while Aestith did something with his hair. He used the time to finish questioning him about the nobles. Arcedi told Aestith too many and too few details about the house at the same time; the pale drow hinged onto inane details and was skip over anything Aestith thought might have been interesting. The bones from the butchered people, Arcedi had been unable to find. He said that there was a sewer grate through one of the halls in the underground section that looked as if it were frequently disturbed, but that could be from either dumping bodies or as a way to come and go.

“Did you go inside?”

“No, I got out from street level.” He tilted his head, and explained that he had been able to sneak into the servant’s passage to the second floor and get into a tree. The tree had been near the perimeter wall, and he had scaled down it, unseen as far as he was aware. Aestith set the red pigmented beeswax aside and looked at his lips in the mirror, then back at Arcedi.

“Arcedi? Would you mind renting out a room at a nearby inn? I’ll meet you there.”

“I have a better idea, lovey.” The last word was in Common; there wasn’t an Undercommon equivalent. “I’ll meet you near the inn with a carriage.”

Aestith walked downstairs, past the room that the guest was obviously in, from the sounds, and down the stairs. Tim and Kairon looked to be all in a tizzy and Hogpen seemed exhausted. Who was this new patron to need so much attention?

Aestith glanced at Tim’s guestbook, surprised he recognized the penmanship. He certainly didn’t care if Xaiviryn bought every whore in the brothel and had an orgy so long as he paid. He thought less of him for being with non-drow, though.

Aestith said, “I’ll go figure out the cakes and chocolates. You guys deal with his bull shit. And make sure he pays.”

“Thanks, Aestith,” Kairon said with some sarcasm.

Aestith waved and marched off, but not in search of a late night patissiere. He met Arcedi outside the inn as requested. The other had already hired a carriage, and given the man directions. It made Aestith vaguely uneasy, but he thought he had Arcedi relatively well-figured out. The carriage driver took them to the docks and Arcedi brought Aestith down to the smaller boats. He passed them with a critical eye, then seemed to pick one out.

As a guard passed, Arcedi held Aestith’s hips and bent his head near the other’s ear, which was just awkward enough that guard hurried. The pose allowed them to see in both directions. When they were alone, they parted. Arcedi inclined his head toward the boat.

They stole onto the boat and Arcedi steered it gently out to sea.

“Where are we going?” Aestith asked, not especially concerned.

“Out away from the city. Only just far enough.” He winked.

Aestith asked Arcedi about the noble, if there was anything else there.

The pale drow replied, “Not really, but after finding that chamber, I wasn’t really inclined to stick around. Does it help you at all?”

It really only made things more convoluted. The love story might have just been some kind of leverage that Xaiviryn needed over the paladin, but the cultist bit complicated things. He wondered if Xaiviryn knew, or if it was worth mentioning to him. He supposed that if Xaiviryn was involved this far, he had to know.

He couldn’t help feeling slightly disgusted at the idea that Xaiviryn was with non-drow, particularly Tirowan. It wasn’t jealousy; that required being possessive and covetous, and was an emotion that Aestith didn’t particularly understand. Jealousy wasn’t sensible or logical. All Aestith felt was simple disgust.

Granted, he couldn’t blame either Xaiviryn or Arcedi for it. Arcedi only had a passing interest in the male body, and how many female drow were on the surface? Very few, before Aestith even considered that Arcedi had thought of himself as a moon elf for much of his life. Xaiviryn liked men well enough, but had an obvious desire for variety, coupled with his libido, it was a small wonder he was the way he was. If Aestith were capable of the emotion, he may have felt pity for them both.

“I appreciate the information,” Aestith said. The boat sailed a fair distance out, away from the perpetual stink of the city.

Arcedi trimmed the sail and dropped the anchor. He moved about on the small deck, throwing down a blanket he had found in the cabin. He flopped down on it, staring upwards. Aestith laid down next to him, and imagined this was a totally unnecessary seduction scene. The railing on the boat obscured the otherwise unimpeded view of the horizon, and Aestith was grateful for the small obstruction.

Arcedi instead pointed. “Look without Darkvision.”

Aestith’s gaze followed along where Arcedi pointed, at the blinding sky. Thousands of bright white lights, hundreds of blue and red. Millions of eyes staring downwards. With some effort and great reluctance, he allowed himself to go blind to the dark. The water gently rocked and swayed the boat. Arcedi was warm beside him, and the world was unnaturally dark.

Aestith felt blind and exposed, but the night sky was, bizarrely, not as bright. Swirls of purple and blue blotted out stars he had been able to see in infrared. Arcedi said, “So when I really realized I was different from moon elves was when discussing the night sky.” His fingers traced a constellation. “Because we can’t see the constellations without sacrificing infrared. The whole night sky is full of stars and it’s bloody impossible to differentiate one shape from another, even if you do know the names and locations of the stars. Then you realize that so many of the stars out there don’t have names-- _ because other races can’t see them. _ ” He laughed. Aestith would have found it amusing, had they been safely indoors. “We’d make great astronomers, or navigators on a ship. But looking at even the night sky kinda burns after a while.” He rolled his head and looked at Aestith. The shadows made his white skin stand out in vivid contrast, like some kind of abstract painting. “But I thought you should see it, even just once.”

While Aestith did not regret the knowledge gained from the venture, he hated being under the open sky, and wasn’t sure which was worse. Was it better to be so limited in the dark, or to see the night sky for the speckled horror it really was? It was better to not think about it. Aestith leaned forward. His lips brushed Arcedi’s and a muffled voice said, “Aestith, where are you?”

Aestith turned his head, and realized the sending stone was still in his pocket. He groaned and reached for the stone. Aestith said, “Kairon?”

“It has been  _ hours _ . This guy keeps yelling about cakes and chocolates. Where are you?”

Aestith rolled his eyes. “There aren’t any bakeries open this time of night.”

“Well, can’t you bake? Get back here!”

Aestith snorted. “No.”

Kairon swore. Aestith set the stone down and tried to relax as Arcedi’s fingers wandered down his body. A short while later, Kairon’s voice disrupted the tranquility. “We’re breaking into your room.”

Aestith’s eyes widened. “Don’t you fucking  _ dare _ —” But it was silent and Kairon offered no response. Aestith made a few attempts to contact again, but short of a spell, he assumed the matter was lost. The Club had a master key to the bedrooms. He didn’t really have anything of interest in there, but they would no doubt attempt to get into his lab. He ground his teeth. There were two locks to get in though, and neither Tim nor Kairon knew anything about lockpicking or even had a set of proper tools. So unless Monkey or Dee showed up, they couldn’t possibly get in.

Did Tirowan know the Knock spell? Aestith smirked; she was busy.

Arcedi said, “Do you want to go home and stop them?”

Aestith sighed. “It will take too long to get there. They’ll have already gotten into my room by then. They could try to break the door to my lab, but the brothel will pay for damages so I don’t think they will. Neither of them has lockpicking tools or the skills to pick the locks.” He made a face. “No. Please continue.”

The boat rocked with their movements. Aestith could almost forget that the sky was above him instead of a cavern; that instead of stone, the horizon stretched as far as he could see if he dared to look. He could almost forget that the reason he was quiet during these moments was because sound echoed in a cave, instead of being carried by the water.

#

Adam was already looking for Aestith, ready for his next fix and eager to sell the rest. He said, “There are a lot of people coming and going at the temple right now. They’ve been doing construction for the past few months, building some kind of tower. I couldn’t get into it to look, but it’s almost finished.”

“Do you know what it’s for?”

Adam considered, then said, “Do you want me to sneak in?”

Aestith shook his head. “Anything else?”

Adam tested the weight of the new bag of candies in one hand before he tucked it under his coat. “Yeah. They’ve been getting shipments of residuum.”

“How did you know that’s what it is?”

Adam stared at Aestith flatly. “I heard them talking.”

“How much?”

He hesitated. “I saw the wagons coming in when they were talking.”

_ Wagons? Multiple? _

Someone getting in this much residuum were definitely doing something. It was a temple, so probably nothing nefarious exactly, but something that might disrupt Aestith’s plans, considering the nature of the temple. It may be bad for Arcedi, and Xaiviryn. Any criminal element really. It was hard to say what they were doing.

“Keep watching them. Let me know if they get any other strange shipments.”

Adam gave Aestith a bit of coin for the candies and the two parted.

In the Traveler’s Club, Kairon and Tim were just rising from bed while Aestith checked the books. There was an entry in the ledger for 500 gold the night previous under Zelvier. It was exactly what they needed to put them back within operating costs with a bit of extra, which would help considering that the Gazette ran an article that claimed that the brothel owners murdered people and attacked patrons.

They really did need to do something about Emerick.

Aestith inspected his room, irritated to find a note in Tim’s handwriting that read “Aestith sucks” on his writing desk. Aestith tossed it into the fireplace and set it on fire. In the washroom, he immediately spotted all of the bottles of oils and creams with disturbed lids. A cursory inspection proved that they had all been mixed together and put back in random order. Petty, really, which fit Kairon and Tim’s motif. Not to mention that, since Monkey had no inclination to have anything to do with the Club, let alone live here, Tirowan had since taken over his room. It led to some amusing spats over the bathroom between Aestith and she, but Kairon and Tim had made little effort to discover whose cosmetics were whose, and mixed all of them together.

Aestith separated them neatly and poured out the ruined bottles and canisters on his side. He actually preferred to buy the products in bulk and decant them, so he spent about an hour cleaning the containers out and refilling them, then went to inspect the lock on his tower. It was still locked. It looked like they had tried to pick it with a couple of steak knives. Aestith snorted, unlocked it. The locks turned so they hadn’t destroyed it that much. The trapdoor was still locked and seemed untouched.

It didn’t change the fact that now they were curious though, and the lab was compromised. Not to mention the invasion of his privacy and blatant disrespect.

Aestith locked everything down again and drew up another ad for the brothel. He asked Tirowan if she had a portrait of herself, which of course she did--a small one. He thanked her and took it and the ad to another paper. He placed the ad and bought a newspaper. He spent the afternoon looking for rentals in the paper with the intention of seeing Xaiviryn in the evening to mention the cultists to him.

As Aestith descended the stairs to the main floor, his curiosity drew him to a halt. Eilora sat in one of the chairs, intently watching out the window. Hogpen and Stoutbrew pressed against the glass. Tim and Kairon held a hushed conversation by the bar. Tim’s expression became increasingly agitated.

“What’s going on?” Aestith wondered.

Eilora pointed, shoving a handful of popcorn into her mouth. Aestith wandered over to the window. He blanched and looked back at the wood elf. “Is that…?”

Eilora nodded.

He looked back. “And she’s…”

“Yep.”

The female half-orc’s stringy hair was pulled up until it pointed and decorated with a pink bow. Her dress looked to be fashioned out of a floral-printed bath curtain. The application of cosmetics, while applied with gusto and vim, would have been too much on a clown. Lipstick smeared over her lips reminiscent of how a child ate spaghetti. Eyeshadow had been applied liberally all around her eyes. A near-perfect circle of rouge decorated each cheek. Boartusk seemed, oddly, nervous.

Tim hissed, “This is not what I really had in mind for my first date, Kairon.”

“Grezelda seems really nice,” Kairon said.

Aestith sat down next to Eilora. She offered the bowl of popcorn. He plucked a handful. Aestith and Eilora whispered rapidly about Tim’s date and came to an accord. Aestith hurried out the door. He flagged down a carriage and told the driver to make haste to the Misty Beard.

Aestith careened out of the carriage into the bar, explained the situation in as few words as possible. The wizards immediately snapped to action; they roped off a section of the balcony seating, set the ambiance, and reconfigured the menu. Aestith found a corner with a good view and settled in to watch. He ordered two beers and a bowl of nuts.

Eilora gave Aestith updates from the Sending Stone and let him know when she was on her way as well.

Aestith mostly watched the window, then his eyes widened when he saw them. Kairon had let them borrow Franklin. Tim did not ride Franklin, so much as that he was trapped by Grezelda on the mount. Grezelda lumbered off of the saddle and Franklin seemed to sag in relief. Kairon had previous claimed that the saddle was enchanted to make the rider impervious to being dismounted. Despite the enchantment, Tim somehow managed to fall from the saddle directly into the mud. Aestith cringed and ran to the bar.

“They’re here!” he said. “Does anyone know prestidigitation? Stupid question. He just fell in mud.”

The bartender nodded, set down his dishcloth and said, “I’ve got this.” The wizard bartender marched toward the door, then opened it with a small fanfare of magic and music. A carpet rolled out from nowhere toward the lucky couple. For his part, the bartender managed to keep a straight face. Grezelda had “helped” Tim out of the mud and somehow only managed to smear it around him and rub it deeper into his suit. The bartender shook Tim’s hand, whisking his dirtied clothing clean of mud and grime with a cantrip.

Aestith took his seat and grinned as Tim and Grezelda walked past. Tim shot Aestith a nasty look. Aestith said into the Sending Stone, “They’re here--where are you?”

“Almost there!” Eilora replied.

Aestith watched the date progress in a haze of schadenfreude. Tim sat down and attempted to order. The wizards were just as delighted as Aestith to have such entertainment on full display.

Eilora arrived minutely and slid into the seat beside Aestith. Her badger hunkered under the table. She reached for the beer, then glanced at Aestith.

His eyes fixed on the display on the balcony. “It’s fine. I didn’t put anything interesting in it. Wouldn’t want to take away from this.”

She considered this, went to drink from it, then thought better of it.

Aestith rolled his eyes and sipped from her mug. He handed it to her. Eilora scowled, then shrugged and drank anyway. The conversation taking place between Grezelda and Tim was probably a symphony of audible delight, but they couldn’t hear it from the first floor; they didn’t need to. Tim made every expression of pain Aestith had ever heard of, squirmed uncomfortably, and drank more than a sailor on shore leave.

Eilora ordered a cheese platter. She and Aestith picked over the cheese as they watched and occasionally commented on the goings-on. They were not the only patrons watching. Whatever Tim said to Grezelda, she rose from her chair and grabbed her dress. She lifted it above her hips. Blessedly, Aestith and Eilora did not have a view of her. Tim looked on in horrified silence as she removed something from a belt at her waist. Her dress fell back down and she showed him some kind of knitted abomination. Tim smiled and nodded, said some pleasantries. He discovered his glass was empty and quickly refilled it to empty it again.

Eilora leaned over to Aestith and whispered, “Did she just show him her underpants?”

Aestith sipped from his cup. “I’d say it’s going well.”

The wizards sent over a violinist and Grezelda shyly offered to dance. Tim downed the rest of his beverage and accepted her offer. He vomited and a wizard cleaned it up before the smell permeated the room. Grezelda seemed to take no notice and lifted Tim into her arms. Tim’s feet were almost a foot from the ground when she held him close for the dance. Tim squirmed in her embrace and gasped for air as he suffocated in her ample bosom.

The wood elf said, “So, the other day when all of us went out and you fucked off as usual, Boris ended up drinking with us.”

“Who?”

She rolled her eyes. “That human noble. We went spelunking with him once, killed some displacer beasts. And a manticore.”

He blinked. “Oh, that was a while ago.”

She nodded. “Anyway, so we were drinking and he came back to the brothel with us. He and I were talking, and stayed up kinda late.”

Aestith raised an eyebrow.

She took a sip of beer. “So what I mean is, we woke up on one of the benches downstairs, kind of snuggled together.” Her cheeks heated.

Aestith sighed. “That’s it?”

She frowned. “Well, how do I… How do I ask him out?”

Aestith blinked slowly. “You’re a woman. You just use your words.”

Eilora tilted her head to one side. “Just… ask?”

“Yes. If you desire him, tell him so.” Perhaps it was more complicated in other races, but it seemed fairly straightforward to Aestith.

Eilora squirmed. “But you mean I just… go up to him and say, ‘Would you like to go on a date’?”

He nodded. “I suppose you could. The important thing is to communicate to him that you are interested.”

“But what if he doesn’t like me?”

Aestith stared at her. “Why would he not desire you?”

Eilora’s face reddened further, offsetting her emerald hair. “I don’t know.” She busied herself with her mug. “How do you proposition people?”

He took a sip from his own mug. “I tell them.” He glanced at her. “I say something akin to ‘I like your ass. Let’s bang.’ It’s quite simple.”

Not catching Aestith’s sarcasm, Eilora mulled this over like a spiced wine while observing Tim and Grezelda dance. Aestith supposed that her asking Boris out couldn’t be worse than Tim’s date. 

Grezelda plopped Tim back down in his chair. He refilled his glass and downed it quickly. The mismatched couple exchanged a few more pleasantries. Grezelda picked up the knitted thing from the table and scooted out of the chair. She lifted her dress to put the item back in her belt. Tim’s eyes glazed.

“I think it’s a tea cozy?” Eilora suggested.

As Aestith saw them preparing to leave, he and Eilora split their bill and called a carriage to follow them. Grezelda and Tim hopped back onto the overburdened Franklin and went off at a bouncy trot. Tim leaned over to vomit into the street. The carriage lumbered after and stopped a block behind, by the City of the Dead. Grezelda stopped and spoke to the guard at the gate while Tim swayed on Franklin’s saddle.

Aestith paid the carriage driver and the unlikely but exceptionally nosy duo watched in astonishment as Grezelda pulled Tim from Franklin and, holding his hand in a grip that looked to be causing Tim pain, escorted him past the gate. The guard walked a short distance behind. He had locked the gate, but when they were out of sight, Aestith went to the lock. They left Cakecake with Franklin. Aestith replaced the lock. They had to stop around the corner of a mausoleum, as the guard had stopped at the treeline. Eilora whispered that Grezelda’s huge footprints continued.

“I can’t sneak past,” Aestith whispered back. “Go find them, let me know what’s going on.”

She wrinkled her freckled nose. “How do I know when to give them some privacy?”

Aestith’s eyebrows arched. “It’s the City of the Dead. So never.”

She nodded, as if that made it suddenly clear. He touched her shoulder and used a cantrip to aid in her sneaking. She nodded and moved around the other side of the building. Aestith snuck back to the gate, picked the lock again, and replaced it. He stayed with Franklin and Cakecake, under the knowledgeable assumption that he was safer with them. Eilora occasionally fed him updates, like how they were talking and discussing the stars. How Tim had finished the paint thinner-like contents of his bottle. Through stifled laughter, Eilora described Grezelda hugging and trying to cuddle with Tim. It apparently caused him pain.

“They’re leaving!” Eilora hissed. Then, to Cakecake, “Cakecake, hide with Aestith.”

Aestith and Cakecake moved around the corner into an alley. He peeked around the corner as Grezelda and a puke-infused Tim rode past on Franklin. Tim had apparently drank himself into a stupor and thus Grezelda had thrown him across the back of the horse as one might do with an incapacitated prisoner or luggage.

Whatever Eilora was doing, she was taking her sweet time. Aestith looked down one side of the alley, then the other. Cakecake nosed at some garbage. Aestith jumped at the sound of a footstep and pointed his crossbow at the alley mouth. He lowered it when he saw Eilora. She stared, eyes wide, at the weapon.

Aestith slid it back in its case. “You really shouldn’t sneak up on drow.” 

“I wasn’t sneaking,” she said. “Did you see where they went?”

“No, I think we lost them. Back to the brothel?”

“Yeah. I’ll go find a carriage.” She left Aestith in the alley, since it was easier for a lone wood elf to find a carriage than a drow. The Gazette had ran a story about wererat attacks in the South Ward. Most people, of course, ignored it as a preposterous tale, but Aestith knew it to be true. They were a stone’s throw from the area, and he was jumpy. He was just contemplating how coming here to satiate his epicaracy was not the best decision he had ever made when Eilora came back with the carriage. They hurried back to the brothel, holding a sedate discussion about Tim’s date, occasional interjections about how Eilora should ask Boris out.

On the way back, they saw Grezelda walking alone the other way. Boartusk, who Aestith assumed might be Grezelda’s father, sat outside in his chair with a look on his face Aestith might have mistaken for constipation under other circumstances. Eilora stayed downstairs only long enough to verify that Tim was still alive. Kairon had apparently used some paladin trick to sober Tim, which Tim was not grateful for. Aestith had not quite gotten his daily dose of sadism yet, and sat down at the table with them uninvited, to enjoy the conversation between Kairon and Tim. They ignored Aestith. 

Tim gave Kairon a long-suffering sigh. “I appreciate you trying to set me up on a date, Kairon. It’s just that this was my first date, and I really would have preferred someone… else.”

“Grezelda wasn’t nice?”

Tim stared at him flatly. “She was very… nice. It’s just she isn’t really my type exactly.”

“Oh, well what kind of girl or guy do you like then?”

Tim tilted his head. “Guy?”

“Yeah, I mean, I keep my options open.”

Tim nodded. “It’s, I think, generally women. More… more like me? Half-elves. Elves. Humans.”

“Gnomes?”

“Well, maybe if I liked them.”

Kairon made a face.

Tim stroked his chin. “Kairon, what kind of person are you into?”

Aestith rolled his eyes. “You can sum that up as, ‘none of the short races’.”

“So three gnomes in a trenchcoat?”

Aestith snickered. Kairon glared at both of them. “That’s disgusting.”

Behind them, Stoutbrew and Hogpen set down their current work. The door slammed as Hogpen left.

“What’s her problem?” Kairon said, then glanced at Aestith. “Lemme guess, drow only?”

Aestith said, “How’d you ever guess?”

“Just kind of limits your options, right?”

He shrugged. “I suppose.”

The door slammed a second time as Stoutbrew left. Closing time was still an hour off.

“What’s their problem?” Aestith muttered.

Tim’s eyes widened. “You just said Kairon was racist against short people.”

“It’s true.” Then Aestith stilled. “Shit! Damnit, Kairon! Go out there and apologize.”

“You’re the one who said it!” He crossed his arms. “I’m not apologizing for shit, least of all to a halfling and a dwarf.” He stomped up the stairs.

Aestith grabbed Tim before he chased after Kairon. “Come on.” They clambered onto Franklin outside and chased down Stoutbrew. Tim did some pleading, then some bribing, and Stoutbrew was willing to convince Hogpen not to slander the brothel, but he gave his resignation, and assured them that Hogpen would absolutely not be back.

Fortunately, they had already put out an ad to hire on more help. Now they’d just be hiring more people. As they headed back, Aestith asked, “Tim, when were our interviews?”

He groaned. “Not until the end of the tenday.”

“Shit.”

Yelling at Kairon about it was an exercise in futility, but they chastised him anyway. He was, predictably, unrepentant. He rolled his eyes and groaned theatrically, “Oh no, how will we ever find another dwarf in Waterdeep that has the ability to tend a bar?” 

Tim hired a maid service that would come by every day until they could replace Hogpen. Their bartending was simple, as they didn’t serve mixed drinks and it was only a matter of filling glasses with beer, ale, wine, and so forth. Any one of them could do it.

Arcedi dropped by late in the night, and couldn’t stay long. He said, “We need to leave town, Aestith.”

He sighed. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

He shook his head. “If that tower is completed, we need to leave town.”

“I never asked you to go into the tower.”

“Well, good thing I did!” He dropped a charcoal sketch into Aestith’s lap.

Aestith turned it around. He almost complained that the symbol was some kind of wizardry, but he stopped. It wasn’t. It was reminiscent of the Zone of Truth spell, but on a far larger, grander scale. “What is this?”

Arcedi tilted his head. “That’s the symbol on the floor of that tower. The one at the temple.”

“What about the nobles?”

“Hang them. Doesn’t matter.” He pointed at the symbol. “I took it to a wizard I know, right? He had to go through some books, but this is going to expand around the city.” He shivered. “No more lying, no more disguises. And it’s permanent. Everywhere in the city.”

Aestith’s skin crawled. “Shit.”

“Yeah, no kidding. I was leaving in the next few days, before it gets completed. You should too.” Arcedi went to the window. 

Aestith said, “Where will you go?”

He shrugged. “Luskan, probably? No way it’s getting built there.”

Aestith hated sailing. He would have to start all over again in Luskan. With Aracnelxeth maybe. Or Neverwinter? It was only a matter of time before this prototype was constructed there as well.

If Aestith were just learning about it, the other gangs and factions had to have known much longer, nevermind that Aestith had been here less than a season. They would have tried to sabotage it.

“Do you know if any other factions or private parties have tried to sabotage it?”

“Have you seen it?” Arcedi laughed. “It’s guarded by guardsmen, paladins, and clerics.”

“You got in.”

Arcedi rolled his eyes. “I’d love to regale you with a tale of pickpocketing, scaling walls, and breaking in through windows, Aestith, but you’ll have to settle with one tourist sneaking away from the tour.”

Aestith blinked. “That’s actually rather brilliant, Arcedi.”

He grinned. “I thought so.”

The cleric put a hand on Arcedi’s, to stop him climbing out the window. “But do you know anyone who is planning on sabotaging it?”

He sighed. “I know guilds that have been trying to find a way to do it and been unable to. And I know there have been some arrests.” He put a foot on the sill. “There are going to be more arrests too, once it’s functional. It’s about two weeks from completion.”

“How did I not realize?” Aestith muttered.

“You’ve been here a few weeks, and been busy.” He shrugged. “Me? I’ve no excuse. I see a tower, I see construction, and that’s boring. Shoulda been paying attention, innit? Ah, well. Found out in time.” He started to duck through the window.

“Arcedi?”  
“Hm?”

“When do you leave? Visit me before you do.”

“Sooner than that, I hope.” He grinned. “Just some things I have to do first. Sorry.” He ducked and climbed down the side of the building. A cool breeze rustled the heavy damask curtains and chilled the skin. Somewhere in the dark, a dog barked, then was silenced.

#

Aestith ended up bartending. Tim took the night off, and left Deekin and Kairon to hold up his podium. Wherever Tim had wandered off to, Eilora went with him. The evening started fairly slow and picked up a fair bit, mostly with people looking for a drink. Aestith had the courtesans entertain them while Deekin played background music. A trio of wizard trainees from the college came to drink. Tirowan busied herself with them, and while she smiled and was polite, her body language implied irritation while they bragged about their wizardly accomplishments.

Bartending, when you didn’t have to mix drinks, was actually a fairly simple task. Only one of the wizards seemed suspicious of a drow being a bartender. Aestith picked up his cup and took a sip from it. It left a rose-colored imprint of Aestith’s lips on the rim of the cup. Aestith winked at him and greeted another customer.

The person who came in was a tiefling woman, who Aestith assumed was attractive if someone were interested in that sort of thing. Unfortunately, all of the courtesans were occupied. Aestith snagged Kairon from the podium.

“Go talk to her. All of the courtesans are busy and I’m bartending,” he hissed.

Kairon’s lecherous gaze ran down her form and he stalked over to her. Kairon came back with her drink order, but showed no interest in giving it to her.

“Not to your taste?” Aestith asked as he set the glass down.

Kairon said, “I’m not a courtesan, and I’m working.”

Aestith shrugged a shoulder. “Here.”

Kairon picked up the drink and went to deliver it.

The Sending Stone in Aestith’s pocket said his name. He grabbed it. Eilora’s voice said, “Aestith?”

“Yeah?”

“Is Kairon around?”

“Yeah.”

“Go somewhere else.”

He snorted, then wandered into the sparse kitchen. “What’s up?”

She giggled. “Is there a very attractive female tiefling there? Not Flameglow.”

Aestith heaved a sigh. “Yeah.”

“That’s a gnome.”

A long pause as the pieces fell into place. Tim was getting his revenge for Grezelda. “I see.”

Tim said, “Can you help?”

“Absolutely. Hold on. You’ll need to come back.”

Aestith wandered back to the bar, then around it. He went to Kairon at the podium. He said, “Kairon. I was considering how you consistently bitch about how you work every night. I think you’d be more agreeable if you took the night off and possibly got laid.” He inclined his head toward the female tiefling.

Kairon considered. “You sure you can handle this yourself?”

“Yeah. Eilora and Tim are on their way back.”

The paladin nodded. “All right. It’s about time you stepped up around here anyway, Aestith.”

He smiled and went back around the bar. Kairon went over to the tiefling and they spoke briefly, then they left the establishment. A short time later, Eilora and Tim arrived. Tim went to his podium and Eilora mingled for a while and sat near Deekin. The night progressed and the customers paid their tabs and left.

While they were closing, Tim’s head suddenly jerked up, his eyes wide. “Oh, shit.”

“What? What happened?” Eilora said with a grin.

He looked around, panicked. “So Kairon found out, attacked the gnome, almost got arrested, and is on his way back to the brothel.” He added, “I was watching from my imp.”

Aestith snickered. “Well, have fun with that.” He trotted to his room and locked the door. He heard Eilora come up the stairs to her room. Tim went to his room in a rush and locked the door. Deekin went to his own room a short time later. Aestith went to his laboratory. From a window on the way up, he glimpsed Tim using Spiderwalk to climb up the tower. Aestith closed the curtain.

The front door opened and slammed closed. Feet stomped up the stairs to the second floor, opened the door to the third floor and stalked across the hall to Tim’s room. Kairon did not even knock; he had grabbed the master key. He flung the door open. Aestith listened for a possible eruption of a paladin and warlock duelling. Nothing happened. There were some more footsteps, some rifling through drawers and checking under furniture. The door closed again and Kairon crossed the hall.

He banged on Aestith’s door. Aestith tried to ignore it, but Kairon’s persistence was bound to put a dent in the hardwood. He clambered down the stairs to the door, lifting the goggles from his face to his hairline. He unlocked the door without bothering to remove the gloves or heavy leather apron. “Yes, Kairon?”

Kairon blinked in surprise, but recovered quickly. “Where is Tim?”

Aestith shrugged one shoulder. “I’m not his keeper.”

“Did you see him?”  
“He went into his room.”

Kairon made a face, and turned away. He trudged up the stairs to Eilora. Aestith shut and locked the door and returned to his laboratory. He heard Eilora and Kairon talking for a while. Kairon never raised his voice, but Eilora sounded agitated. He imagined that, whatever happened, Kairon didn’t kill Tim or he would have heard the fighting.

In the morning, Aestith was up early and started making savory cheese scones and tea. Tim also came down for breakfast. Dark circles bruised his eyes and his skin seemed drawn, as if he spent much of the night on the roof. He reached for a scone and glanced at the apron Aestith was wearing. Aestith maintained eye contact as he bit into a scone, chewed, and swallowed. The tension left Tim’s shoulders and he picked up one.

“Would you like some tea?” Aestith pointed to the pot.

“Did you make it?” Tim said.

“Yes. And the scones.” He hung the apron on a peg and picked up another scone to eat with his tea. Tim was uncertain, but hunger won against his caution.

Kairon lumbered down the stairs. He smiled at Tim. The warlock slunk into a corner. He downed his tea and shoved the pastry into his mouth before he scampered out the door. Kairon snorted.

“I’m going out for the day,” Eilora said as she trotted down the stairs. She whistled to Cakecake and the badger trudged after her. Kairon apparently also had some errand to attend in the Castle Ward. Deekin and Tirowan left to do some shilling for the brothel, which they needed after the last “tell all” the Gazette ran; an “anonymous source” insisted that they had rats. Aestith guaranteed it was Emerick’s doing. 

Something really must be done about him.

#

The liquid in the glass bubbled and the substance rose to the surface, traveled down a thin glass tube. It pooled into the glass beaker, a single droplet at a time. So much material for so little a substance.

The other jars and bottles on the shelves had all been filled slowly in similar fashion and carefully labeled. To Haeltania, the labels were largely unnecessary; she never confused one liquid for another, no matter how similar. She knew them by consistency, by smell. She sat at her table with a careful, straight posture. A leather apron protected her clothing and skin from possible spills, and the finely tailored gloves allowed the best possible movement and protection. A pin held her amber hair on the back of her head.

The glass she used was the finest Rix gold could purchase. She would have nothing less near her. Even the mask and the goggles somehow could not diminish her beauty, from her long legs, to her tapered waist, the graceful curve of her neck.

From the ceiling a single dark spider dropped down on a slender strand of silk. It stopped before her eyes. A pair of red lips smirked on the spider’s abdomen. Haeltania stilled, her breathing shallow. Why was Lolth watching her? Why was she here, now?

_ I would have you as a cleric. _

The sultry voice was as clear as her glass instruments in her mind, just as deadly as her worst poison and as smooth as an oil.

Haeltania tugged down her mask to her neck and inhaled sharply. She wished, suddenly, that she were wearing something more presentable. She bowed her head to the spider. “Only tell me what I must do, Spider Queen.”

_ I would give you a test to measure your worth. _

Her hands shook. “Yes, Queen of Spiders.”

_ There is one boy masquerading as a woman that has proclaimed himself to be one of my clerics. I have accepted inferior males before, but not ones who pretend to be that which they are not. A male attempting to usurp a female’s place displeases me. _

Her throat felt dry and she lowered her head still further. The air felt thick with the goddess’s presence.

_ You shall kill him in the Trial of Lolth. _

Her eyes squeezed shut. She could barely breathe. “Yes, Queen of Spiders. What is his name?”

_ Aestith Rix. _

 


	25. Temple of the Gods

Aestith found a townhouse he could rent not an unreasonable distance from the Traveler’s Club. The satchel of holding provided the perfect way to move his laboratory, though it still consumed much of his day. Tim came home later, and Kairon shortly after. The time apart seemed to have repaired some of the damage and they were amiable toward one another.

A few hours before opening, Aestith went outside on the patio to enjoy a cigarette in what he hoped would be silence. This hope was short-lived, as Kairon and Tim came outside a short time later to gripe about the latest story in the Gazette. Tim complained that he had tried to do some advertising and someone asked about rats.

Aestith and Kairon had gone to hire a law firm a while ago to bring a suit against the Gazette for all the slander, but it was a slow process.

Four drow strutted up the street, all wearing hats, all in a human guise. Aestith wondered what they could possibly want, and took another drag on the cigarette.

Zanisernix leaned against the garden wall. “Hello, Aestith. Nice evening, isn’t it?”

Aestith smiled and offered him a cigarette from his slender silver case. “If you say so.”

He plucked a cigarette from the case. Ryze grinned and winked at Tim. Ryze’s human guise was a simple one that kept his original facial features. Tim’s jaw dropped. “You’re all drow,” the half-elf said.

Zanisernix shook his head. “There are no drow in Waterdeep.”

_ There are no drow in Waterdeep. _ Aracnelxeth had said the same thing when Aestith met him. Aestith had never asked him about Zanisernix or Xaiviryn. It wouldn’t surprise him at all if he had actually had something to do with them.

Tim and Kairon pointed at Aestith, who smiled.

With the patience of someone being paid for it, Zanisernix said, “There are no drow in Waterdeep.” He lit the cigarette with a match and waved out the match. He dropped it into the ashtray. He looked at Aestith and inclined his head. “Let’s have a drink.” He smiled. The guise had slightly yellowed teeth.

Kairon’s tail twitched in growing suspicion. Tim said, “Oh, we have alcohol here.”

Zanisernix blew out smoke. “I was thinking we’d visit a different bar.”

Tim’s shoulders squared in taken offense. “What’s wrong with our bar?”

“We might have more fun elsewhere.” The drow looked at Aestith. “Aestith?”

Aestith picked up his cigarette case and rose. “Excuse me.” He rose and moved toward the gate.

Tim stepped in Aestith’s way, brow drawn in plain confusion. “But you’re here, and--But you said…”

Kairon’s aventurine green eyes slid from the disguised drow to Aestith. He grabbed Tim by the arm and said, “Tim, there are  _ no drow _ in Waterdeep. Particularly not near the Traveler’s Club.”

Zanisernix grinned. Aestith started to sneer, turned it into a beaming smile and stepped past them. Tim continued to attempt to understand what they meant as Kairon led him back into the brothel.

Aestith wondered, at first, if the imp were following them. He didn’t think so, but it was difficult to tell with the limited range of Detect Magic. He walked beside Zanisernix. Zanisernix tossed the cigarette butt into the gutter. Aestith dropped his beside it and as they passed, used a cantrip to incinerate them.

Ryze said, as if they were picking up a conversation from earlier, “I’m a great driver, Eiranish.”

The other three snickered. Eiranish said, “Define ‘great’.”

“We’re all still alive.”

Bingath rolled his eyes. “Should I be punished for all eternity by Lolth, it will be with you as my chauffeur.”

Ryze scowled at his brother, then turned back to Zanisernix. “All I am saying is, I want to drive the cart.”

“You can drive the cart to the bar,” Zanisernix said diplomatically.

Aestith looked forward to whatever they were going to do. Bingath moved to Aestith’s other side in a way that made Aestith uneasy, but he wasn’t sure if it were intentional or not. “It’s been a while, sister,” he said.

Aestith was silent a moment. Bingath knew perfectly well what Aestith’s anatomy was. But what else would he call him? Aestith wore women’s clothing and hairstyles. Why wouldn’t he assume otherwise? Aestith wasn’t about to correct him; there was little to gain in that. “A short while, yes,” he said.

He made a face. “I don’t imagine I’ll see you again for some time, and things are about to get interesting and I may not have this opportunity, so I wanted to say… You should come with us to Neverwinter.”

“All of you really think that?” Aestith frowned. “Now I can’t on principle. You shouldn’t apply so much pressure--you’re bound to break whatever you’re trying to bend.” The corner of his lips tugged to a smile to ease the edge of the comment. “What’s for me there, really, Bingath?”

He chuckled. “Xaiviryn likes you,” he mused, his voice low. “You’re really exactly his type.” A pause. “And a cleric, besides. A cleric of Lolth  _ should _ be with other drow.”

“What he’s saying is that we need you,” Ryze said. He dodged a smack from his elder brother and the one from Eiranish landed.

Aestith sighed. He didn’t need to ask why they thought that way. They were all properly drow. Ran to the surface for one reason or another, but without the religious guidance that was so central to their lives. They knew what they had given up by coming here, but it didn’t mean they didn’t face regrets, or a desire to reconnect with their culture. “Indeed.”

Eiranish chuckled. “Well, you could continue living in a brothel and dealing with that lot.” 

Aestith glanced back at him with a smirk. “You say that like living in a brothel is a bad thing.”

“I imagine it’s frustrating actually,” Ryze butted in. “All those non-drow all the time, and you’re all alone.”

Aestith scowled, but not because Ryze was inaccurate. “Do you speak from experience, Ryze?”

Ryze’s face heated, and even the disguise’s face reddened. Eiranish chuckled and his hand trailed against Ryze’s spine in a gesture Aestith took for intimacy. Ryze lifted his head. “All the drow in the world, most of them women, the males all taken for breeding stock or gone into the meat grinder as it were, and do you know how hard it is finding one I can fuck?”

Eiranish’s face took on a reddish hue that time. Zanisernix and Bingath laughed. Aestith knew exactly how hard that was. And they knew, so what did it matter? He chuckled. “Ryze.” He raised an eyebrow. “You know I didn’t always look like this, right? I know  _ exactly _ how hard that is.”

Ryze grinned. “You’ll have to tell me sometime.” His eyes flicked ahead. “Later.”

The tavern hunched in front of them like a grizzled drunkard over their last cup. They strode inside. It was precisely what Aestith might have expected; seedy, rundown, with a broken window. The grease seemed to be sunken into the wood from years, as if the only way to ensure it would ever be clean would be to replace it. It was vacant, even after the workday. Was that also Dark Carnival’s doing?

Ryze knocked a table over. Bingath kicked over a chair. Emerick glared. “Who the hell are you? Get out of my establishment!”  
Zanisernix grinned. “We’re just here for some shots.” He put a hand on the bar and leaped over the side of it. He lined up a string of shot glasses and grabbed a bottle from the shelf.

Emerick’s splotchy face scrunched with anger. “You can’t be back there!”

Ryze drug a chair to the center of the room. Bingath and Eiranish shoved the furniture toward the center with the chair.

Zanisernix tossed a bottle and Eiranish caught it, then broke it over the chairs. Emerick looked from one disguised face to the next. “What are you doing? I’ll call the guard! Get out!”

Zanisernix tossed the next bottle, another, then stopped to pick up a glass. He raised it. “To Emerick,” he said with a grin. The other three picked up the glasses. Aestith lifted his. They repeated the toast, drank, and threw the glasses. Emerick threatened to call the guards. The drow paid him no heed, continuing to drag the furniture into a pile.

Then they turned toward him. Aestith sat at the bar. Eiranish and Bingath held Emerick still while Ryze force-fed him one of the bottles of cheap rum. He gagged and spit. He choked on it and it ran down his nose. The drow tossed the empty bottle and hauled back his fist. He slammed it into Emerick’s gut.

Aestith grinned.

Ryze broke a few more glass bottles, then wandered outside. Eiranish let Emerick go with a blow to the back, then Eiranish trotted upstairs. The remaining two took turns alternately piling furniture into a heap or beating Emerick.  When Eiranish came down the stairs, Zanisernix and Bingath drug Emerick out the door. Eiranish removed a small bomb.

Aestith shook his head and passed by him toward the door. “Save it.” He raised a hand. Just before it caught flame, the symbol of Lolth etched the floor. The dry tinder went up in a radiant blaze.

Eiranish shrugged, pocketed the bomb, and followed Aestith outside.

Bingath had an arm slung around Emerick’s shoulders. Zanisernix held the human’s arm. The building began to smoke, and a wagon trundled toward them. It had clearly been commandeered from somewhere else, with an advertisement for a business painted on the canvas cover.

Ryze sat at the reins. Zanisernix slapped Emerick on the back. “Let’s go for a ride, friend.”

They hit and pushed Emerick toward the wagon, affixing rope to him as they went. They shoved and kicked him into the back of the wagon. Aestith peered in curiously, then couldn’t help but laugh. They had sawed through the floor of the wagon to leave only the supports, which they lashed Emerick to. They knotted a gag in place and Eiranish turned toward Aestith, offering him a hand up. Aestith accepted and moved to the interior bench, his back to the driver. Ryze had surrendered the reigns to Zanisernix, with some complaint.

The horses took off at a run. To Aestith, the cart jostled and was merely uncomfortable, with a load that was too light and quick for what it was designed for. To Emerick, tied to the support after being beaten and forcibly intoxicated, it was terrifying. Every jostle and movement from the wagon made Emerick jerk or slide. His head banged against the support and he flopped from side to side. He wept and would have begged had he been capable.

The drow in the cart dropped their disguises. The four bantered good-naturedly, offering commentary on the ride, about the people they harassed as they ran past, about their guest. Eiranish looked at Emerick. “I don’t think he’s having fun.” He grinned. “Let’s change that.” He rose. “Emerick! You don’t look like you’re enjoying yourself! You should really loosen up.”

He sprang forward, nimbly on the support beam. He swayed briefly and called back over his shoulder. “Slow down for a minute!”

The cart slowed and he stood, one foot balanced on each remaining support, over Emerick. The grin he gave the human was all the other races saw in the Drow. It was cruelty and delight at cruelty, malice and joy in that malice, sadism with no need for masochism. It was a look that never knew mercy and viewed pity as a weakness to weed out.

He drew a knife and cut the bonds tying Emerick’s legs to the beam. With his ankle pinioned with another rope, Emerick squirmed desperately, trying to keep his place on the support. Eiranish leapt back to his seat and yelled at the driver to speed up again. Every turn and jostle, Emerick was push from one side to the next. His own weight threatened to flip him under the cart. Only the tightness of the ropes prevented it.

The ride lasted over half the hour. The drow smoked, dropping ashes and cigarette butts on Emerick. They drank and tossed the bottles at him, or poured liquor over him. They joked, bantered, sometimes aimed a kick at the human male. Eiranish danced over the exposed supports. If he fell, he could have been caught under the wagon and died, but he never missed a step.  He could spin on one foot, leap to the other beam and turn like a ballerina then step into a type of solo salsa, all without losing his balance. His confidence propelled him during the dance, his surety of foot on par with a goat. Amalette could dance like that, lightly over anything.

He dropped into his seat sweating with the exertion and Bingath clapped him congratutorially on the shoulder. Ryze had a dark look to his eyes that promised something when he and Eiranish might have a moment of privacy.

The cart drew to a sudden, almost violent halt. The others’ disguises flickered and settled back onto them like a mantle. Aestith glanced out of the opening at the South Ward. Eiranish stalked to Emerick and cut the rope pinning him to the support, then kicked him through the hole. They climbed out of the wagon. Bingath hauled Emerick out from under it by his collar. He slammed his fist into Emerick’s gut and turned to Aestith. He gave a practiced, courtly bow and removed his hat as he bowed. He straightened, the disguise dropped. He grinned, then dropped the hat back onto his head.

Eiranish drove his booted foot into Emerick’s stomach and gave Aestith a slightly clumsier but no less elaborate bow, removing the hat for the briefest of moments. Ryze’s bow was more similar to Bingath’s and he also kicked Emerick. Zanisernix punched Emerick and bowed to Aestith, raising his head and flashed a dazzling grin of black pearlescent teeth before it disappeared under the disguise. They left him alone with Emerick. 

Emerick was alive, intoxicated, and whimpering. Aestith chuckled and moved slowly toward him. He knelt and took his knife. He cut Emerick’s clothing to rags, then sliced the gag. He dropped two candies into the man’s mouth, and forced it down with the contents of a waterskin. Aestith leaned close to him and whispered, “Remember, we could have killed you, Emerick. And no one will ever believe what happened.”

He cut the man’s bonds and left him lying in the trash with the sun going down. At the end of the alley, Aestith saw a familiar silhouette in a hat.

Xaiviryn offered a hand to him. Aestith smiled, and took it. Xaiviryn led Aestith to a waiting carriage, far too plush for this area of town. He poured Aestith a glass of wine as the carriage trundled into the city.

“I’d like to share something with you,” he said.

Aestith was content to share the bottle of wine, but the carriage halted before they had quite finished the first glass. Xaiviryn grinned when the door opened. He stepped down and held a hand to Aestith. Aestith accepted.

Most of the guardian statues around the city were occupied, but there were one or two that, due to their structure or location, were left to crumble and decay. Xaiviryn looked up, seemed to measure the distance briefly, then stepped just so. They had to levitate upwards, which made Aestith reluctant because he could only do that once a day.

He went anyway, call it arrogance. Xaiviryn navigated around it by doing minimal climbing and pushing himself up or off of the structure. Aestith followed, counting minutes until he started to sink back down. They moved onto the weather-beaten head of the statue. Xaiviryn stalked around it until they had an excellent view of the city. A blanket had been spread out over it, a bottle of champagne cooling in a bucket of ice, two fluted glasses.

Aestith took a seat on the blanket and curled his legs slightly. “How terribly banal,” he said with a smile as Xaiviryn popped the champagne cork with a loud bang.

Xaiviryn poured one glass and handed it to Aestith. “It’s a beautiful night.” He set the bottle down in the ice and gingerly sat on the other side of the blanket. He did not yet sip the champagne.

Aestith frowned. What was all this really about? Xaiviryn had no need of cheesy seduction scenes, and he knew Aestith cared little for views or stars particularly, and this height only gave them a good view of the horizon, which was sickening. What were they really doing?

It was like something out of one of those horrid romance novels he liked to read. Aside from how Aestith had gotten here, of course and the events leading up to that.

Xaiviryn looked over the city, rarely at the stars, and the horizon and the sea held little interest to him. He was staring at one particular section of the city, where a new tower was slowly rising and due to be completed soon. Desmaduke.

Xaiviryn’s eyes, red with infrared, flicked toward Aestith’s face. “Getting the leverage over the paladin was simple enough. It was sheer convenience that the noble family were cultists too. I really thought we’d need more clout there, but it all sorted itself out.” He sipped from the champagne and seemed like he might go on.

Aestith interjected, “Are you certain they’re really cultists?”

“I have a contact that happened to break in.” He smirked with some imagined self-importance. 

Useful information; he and Arcedi knew one another, but Arcedi wasn’t part of his collective. “And the one I babysat?”

“The clerk arrived in Waterdeep sooner than anticipated, which threw a bit of a wrench into our plans, but you assisted with that. I thought it may have been compromised once or twice, but you solved the issue.” He tilted his head. “After that, it was a matter of infiltrating the temple. It took a while to get everything in place, but we are ahead of schedule.” He cast Aestith a grin. “I had wished, you see, to do this with a bit more style. It would be more climactic to wait until the last possible moment, the day before the tower was due to complete.” He shook his head. “But that would be foolish.”

Aestith’s eyes traced back to the tower. That kidnapped man had been part of Desmaduke after all. The paladin had let them into the temple.

For several minutes, the night continued. It was a normal, boring, middle-of-the-tenday type of night. The brothel would be quiet, and most people would be tucking in to rest for the next day’s work. The light from the city and the smog obscured the view of the sky to most eyes, but Aestith could see through the smog, and at the thousands of eyes glaring downwards from the sky. He tried not to look at it.

The tower fell.

It wasn’t a huge explosion or a bang. It wasn’t a column of smoke. It was as if someone had stacked books and removed one from the bottom of the pile; it wobbled, then toppled. From this distance, it was silent as it fell. Slowly, downward.

Xaiviryn said, “Bit of art, that. Wore down a few key supports. I had to bribe several gnomes and a dwarf to tell me how to bring it down after I acquired the blueprints. The building is made mostly of stone, so I imagine--no, there’s the fires. All without a trace of magic.”

Smoke rose from the ruined tower.

He tinked his champagne glass against Aestith’s and drank. He smiled. “You see, it had to appear to have failed.” He smirked. “They’ll never get the permits to reconstruct it now.”

_ Hence the nobles.  _ “Why not just alter the spell?”

“That was my first thought.” He sighed.

Aestith sipped the champagne.

“Interfering with the spell meant that it had be cast, however. And it wasn’t a risk I was willing to undertake. Anyway, I wanted the residuum.” He tilted his head. “You’ve helped me make quite a bit of money, Aestith.”

“Did I now?”

He drained the glass and set it aside. “How much money does a temple like that have, do you suppose? And all that residuum they never got to use.” 

“Isn’t that suspicious? A heist while the tower falls?”

“The heist was yesterday. Smuggled out with the waste building materials.” He chuckled. “I appreciate the work you did, and with so few questions or second-guessing me. Are you sure you don’t want to go to Neverwinter?”

Aestith looked at his glass. He drained it, just to buy a bit of time. He set the glass down. “I want to go with you.”

He smiled, eyes on the city. “Which is why you’ll be very angry when I tell you that I’d like you to stay.”

The cleric bristled. “All this damned effort you put into trying to convince me to go with you, getting half your entourage to apply similar pressure. You’re quite a tease, aren’t you.”

His eyes flicked toward Aestith. “Only because I’d like to offer you something more, Aestith.”

He raised an eyebrow. He crossed his arms to contain their furious shaking. “Oh? What could you possibly offer me to stay on as some lackey to you in Waterdeep?” He lifted his chin. “If you can’t get me to the Underdark, and you can’t get me out of Waterdeep, why do I care? Would you offer me money? Are you aware they mint more of that every bell? I don’t believe you can give me _ anything  _ I want, Xaiviryn.”

He cocked his head to one side. “Community? An end to loneliness?”

Aestith snorted. “Yet you want me to stay here. Why should I spend my time helping you, Xaiviryn, when you can offer me so little in return?”

He paused. “I would offer you money.” He watched Aestith’s face contort to rage. “Enough to purchase land. And enough to start on a temple, with the promise of more to come. Once the temple is built, it would be simple enough to install a teleportation circle. So come visit me whenever you like.” He raised an eyebrow. “Aestith, you’re young, and I understand you haven’t lived long enough to realize that impatience does you little good, but we have, theoretically, centuries. And you, my lady, shall have a temple.”

Aestith’s lips parted, all his fury evaporated like mist. He wanted to speak, but his tongue could not shape words. He swallowed, and his eyes slid toward the place the tower had been. “It’s like you know precisely what I’ve always wanted.”

“It’s what any cleric would want, I imagine.”

It benefited Xaiviryn as well. More drow would concentrate, so he had a larger recruiting base. The religion would keep more of them in one place, and more of them in check. They would be easier to corral. Aestith’s lips curved to a suggestive smile. “How would you know what a cleric wants?”

Xaiviryn grinned. Aestith dropped the champagne glass in the ensuing grapple. Arcedi would never, but Xaiviryn seemed to like the male parts of Aestith well enough, and there were things Aestith had yet to do, with a man anyway.

As he lay pinned, half-naked and cold with the spring chill, he whispered a command for Xaiviryn to fall, lacing his power into it. Xaiviryn struggled and fell from him. Aestith rolled over him. He pinned the other’s wrists and leaned down to kiss him.

#

Aestith had a brief moment when he couldn’t find his underpants, then looked up to see Xaiviryn dangling them from one finger, a tempting smirk about his lips. He snatched them back. 

Xaiviryn said, “We should go or we’ll end up out here at dawn, which frankly isn’t a sight I care to see. Do you want me to drop you off at that brothel?”

He shrugged. “I suppose. You know where it is, of course.” He tilted his head. “How did Tirowan react, when your hat came off?”

“The highborn one? She didn’t know, initially--Alter Self is a wonderful spell, but difficult to keep concentration during such times.” He shrugged. “Do you know she is actually rather easily bought? I didn’t even have to bargain.”

Aestith smirked. “High elf, indeed.”

He laced his boot. “Oh, she was a bit surprised initially. They all were, but in the end, they’re whores.” He frowned at Aestith. “I never did get my cakes and chocolates though.”

“You’re kind of a pretentious cockhole when you want to be.”

“You know I’m very demanding in bed.”

Aestith looked up at Xaiviryn, a dark, promising expression on his face. Aestith looked back at the buttons on his dress. “You’re fortunate you didn’t get them. It was midnight. Bakeries are closed, which leaves me.”

“You bake?”

Aestith rolled his eyes. “You really know very little about me. It’s almost like we don’t talk much.” He smirked. “I had considered baking you your cakes and chocolates and making a lottery of them, and some of them would of course be spiked with hallucinogens.”

He stared flatly at Aestith. “You’d really do that?”

“You’d have a decent trip out of it. It’s called the Traveler’s Club.”

Xaiviryn laughed. “Fair.” He paused. “So your hallucinogens. Is that your nefarious enterprise you referred to?”

“It might be.”

Xaiviryn tilted his head. “Was that what that clerk was high off his ass on?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. “I might have to purchase some from you.” He stretched, then picked up the empty bottle of champagne. He frowned then tilted his arm back and threw it. He pointed with his other hand, a spell forming as the bottle arced.

Aestith reached a hand up and cast Sacred Flame. A brief symbol of Lolth formed in the air, then shattered the bottle. Xaiviryn scowled. Aestith grinned at him and tossed the remaining champagne glass. The second one had rolled away at some point. Xaiviryn flicked his hand and the glass exploded in flame. He frowned. “Not quite as flashy as yours.”

“Effective.”

“Aye, there’s that.” He moved toward the way they had climbed up.

Aestith was silent a moment. “I’m afraid I can only use that spell once a day.”

Xaiviryn paused, then moved back to Aestith. “Well, it’s a good thing you don’t quite weigh 100 pounds then.” He lifted Aestith. Aestith’s hands gripped the other’s shoulders with easy familiarity.

He asked, as they floated down, more sedately than the way up, how Xaiviryn had come to where he was. He said, “I could be sarcastic, like you, but I don’t think I will.” He tilted his head, watching Aestith’s face. Drow males weren’t generally allowed such familiarity, but Aestith was not quite female enough to enforce such matters even if he wanted to. “Do you know House Velweb? They framed my family for murder.”

“I didn’t realize you were from Enainsi.”

“Before your time.” He paused. “I was away at the time, not that I could have made a difference, but I escaped, and eventually found my way to Skullport. I met a few people there, and we agreed that we could probably do better on the surface. So I forsook everything I had been taught for what you’d call greed, and came here.” He sighed. “After that, it took several decades and a lot of work, but I, and those first two allies, built Dark Carnival.”

“Where are they?”  
He was still a moment. “Well, you met Zanisernix. The other is in Neverwinter and only rarely leaves.”

“Where do you get the hats?”

He smiled. “All in good time.”

“You’re a wizard, aren’t you? You could have cast levitate on both of us.”

He smiled. “Partway. But where’s the fun in that?” He emphasized his point with a grope.

Aestith’s fingers wandered, then he remembered that they were, in fact, floating down several stories to the ground. “Dark Carnival. Was it from a book?”  
“You’ve read it?”  
“Yes.” He hesitated, then sighed, and told him about the trade route by the same name, what had happened, the real reason he had left.

Xaiviryn set Aestith down gently on the stone pavement. “Some would call if providence.”

“Some would be idiots,” Aestith agreed. “It’s a good book and you and Amalette have similar taste, which is a compliment by the way. The world is small and there were only so many words and names. Some are bound to be coincidental.”

“You’ve no sense of wonder at all.” The carriage rolled up to them. The driver must have seen them coming down, or else Xaiviryn had alerted them with a spell. “Though I do find your realism refreshing in someone like yourself.”

Aestith assumed he meant his age, which was irritating. He was physically an adult, just not officially by their culture’s standards; an awkward time.

The ride to the Traveler’s Club, at this hour, was faster going than in the daytime, which proved more a hindrance than a help. The driver stopped the carriage, and Xaiviryn ignored it. Aestith was preoccupied at first, but he noticed a knock at the door. Xaiviryn lifted his head, told the driver to wait, then bent back to his task.

Xaiviryn pulled back a short time later and swallowed, then grinned brightly and moved to the seat beside Aestith. He said, as if they had never been distracted, “So you were telling me about your plans for the temple?”

Aestith smiled lazily. “Just some fantasies I’ve had for a while. I’ll put some more serious thought into it later.”

“You said you’d allow males though?”

“In certain positions, yes.”

Xaiviryn waited for Aestith to adjust his clothing, then opened the carriage door. Aestith stepped down and Xaiviryn swept back into the carriage. They had no need of farewells.

#

Eilora snorted. “So Aestith went out with four drow last night and came back around dawn?”

Kairon nodded. “I keep saying, we’d make a ton of money if Aestith were a courtesan.”

Aestith glared from the top of the stairs. “Good afternoon.”

Eilora blanched, then called to her honey badger as she bustled out the door. Tim said, ‘We heard that Emerick’s bar burned down.”

“Did you now.”

Kairon stared at Aestith. “You had nothing to do with it, I gather.”

Aestith smiled sweetly and went to make tea. Tim forced a grin. “Kairon and I went out to look at bakeries this morning. We were thinking of expanding to offering more sweets. Anyway, we got you a funnel cake.”

Aestith slowly turned toward him, lips curled in disgust. His eyes fell to the funnel cake on its china plate. It was covered in white sugar. “I hate sweets.”

Tim’s face fell. “Oh, well we just thought…”

He sighed. “I bake nearly every morning, and you’ve never once noticed that I don’t put sugar in  _ any _ of my cooking?”

Tim glanced at Kairon. “No.”

“I don’t eat your cooking,” Kairon said. Aestith sneered and turned back to the tea. Kairon sat down in a chair. “You know, Aestith, we really don’t know anything about you.”

“Well, you don’t ask,” the drow snapped.

Kairon nodded sagely. “Fair. So, Aestith, tell me about yourself.”

He measured out tea leaves. “What do you wish to know, Kairon?”

The tiefling’s tail twitched as he considered. “What kind of food do you like? You hate sweets, so what do you like? Chocolate?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You like peppermint.”

Aestith almost laughed. “I like the smell. And making peppermints is a rather relaxing activity. But no. I don’t actually like eating it.”

“What’s your favorite meal?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I like a good deep rothe steak, still bloody. Or a curry.” He set the kettle on the stove to boil.

Kairon nodded in agreement. “I gotta say, I do love steak.”

Tim bobbed his head like a parakeet. “Agreed, but I really like a good stew.”

Aestith picked up a teacup. The others were silent, perhaps expecting him to carry on the conversation; he did not. Tim said, “So tell me about…” He scrambled for anything he knew about Aestith. “About Lolth.”

The cleric frowned and glanced at him over his shoulder. “What?”

Tim shrugged weakly. “Well, I don’t even know the name of my patron.”

Kairon and Aestith slowly turned toward Tim. The tiefling said, “Tim. You sold your soul to something and you don’t even know its name?”

“Well, the temple handled all the paperwork. I just thought it was something you do.”’

“Where are you from again?”

“Thay.”

Suddenly, much about Tim could be viewed with greater clarity. The kettle whistled and Aestith tended it. He said, “Kairon, what is your god? I make no secret of mine. And don’t say ‘Helm.’”

He shrugged. “I do my thing, he does his. We have an understanding.”

Aestith raised an eyebrow. “It’s a demon, isn’t it.”

“I never said that.”

Tim turned eagerly to Kairon. “Do you know its name?”

Kairon sighed. “Tim, demons don’t like giving up their true names, because it gives you power over them.”

Tim was silent a long moment as he contemplated how he had sold his soul to something for the ability to cast a few spells. Aestith commented, “The three of us really each owe our abilities to another, for it is through their grace that we cast spells and not our own power. You owe your patron your allegiance for that.” He stared at Kairon.

The tiefling made a face, but Tim seemed thoughtful. “What does that mean?” Tim said.

Aestith shrugged. “I suppose for each deity, or patron, what they wish of their followers is different. I cannot tell you how to contact or worship your patron. They’re all so different.”

“How do you do it?”

Aestith poured the tea into a cup. “Sacrifice. Daily prayer and meditation. My eternal devotion and servitude.” He set the teapot down. He looked at Kairon. “And what of you, Kairon?”  
“We have an understanding,” he repeated with a shrug.

The drow lifted his cup. “Perhaps you should be more grateful to your god, Kairon. Without it, where would you be?”

He sneered. Tim said, “But how would I contact my patron?”

The cleric sighed. The tea was still too hot to drink. “I don’t know. I’m not a warlock.”

“Does anyone want lunch?” Kairon said as he rose from the barstool.

“I could eat,” Tim said.

Aestith cautiously sipped the tea. “What are you making?”

He started to say something, then gave a dim nod to Aestith. “I was thinking steak.”

Aestith blinked in surprise. “I suppose that would do.” He watched Kairon prepare it anyway, and each of them discussed different foods from their respective homes. Aestith lamented that he missed the cheeses in the Underdark. He waxed poetic about how they set better because the environments were easier to control, and he particularly missed deep rothe cheese. Cheese was one of the few things that he and each of his cohorts agreed upon, so there was usually a fair amount of it in the Traveler’s Club at any given point.

“You know, Aestith, I think this is the most I’ve ever heard you talk,” Tim commented. “More than a few sentences anyway.”

Aestith fell silent and stuffed the last piece of steak into his mouth. He picked up the plate and went to the kitchen. Kairon muttered, “Way to ruin it, Tim.”

“What?”  
Aestith took a long, deep breath. If he was being this open with those two of all people, about Enainsi, he must really be homesick.

#

The newspapers were filled with talk about the failure of the tower. The stolen residuum was not mentioned at all, likely because it was presumed buried in the rubble. The heist went unnoticed, or at least unreported, until the day after--nearly two full days after the heist.  _ Well done, Xaiviryn. _

The courtesans had arrived and the front doors were unlocked. Tim’s podium was distinctly void of Tim. His room was similarly lacking.

Aestith supposed that it was only fair; Aestith had had several nights off, Eilora almost never worked, Deekin worked but it was mostly in external promotion, and Kairon had had a night or two off here and there. Dee had been gone for quite some time, only popping back in for the occasional meal before heading out again--possibly reconnecting with her old thieving contacts. Monkey had absolved himself--for that matter, he might still be in Skullport.

Kairon looked around the bar, as if Tim would manifest. “Aestith, do you know where Tim went? He’s never even late.”

Aestith shook his head and unwrapped one of the trays of horderves. “No. I thought he was taking the night off. He didn’t mention anything to you?”

He shook his head. “No. When did you see him last?”

He set the tray out on the bar. “This morning. Come to think of it, he mentioned he was going to the petshop in the South Ward on his way out.”

“That was hours ago,” Kairon said slowly. “Shit. Who has the Sending Stone?”  
“Eilora and myself.” He sighed. “I suppose I can use a spell. Give me a moment.” He thought about his message, then Sent, _Tim, you’re late for work. Where are you?_

His reply came as if he had been counting words and anticipating Aestith’s contact.  _ My body is on roof of Monster Shoppe. I’m trapped in Impy inside somewhere in a cage. Please help. _

Aestith stared down at the counter and took a long, deep breath. He grabbed the Sending Stone and contacted Eilora. “Eilora, what are you doing?”

“I’m out with Boris,” she said, as if she were blushing somewhere just mentioning it.

“Nevermind,” he said, and dropped it back in his pocket. He took a breath and jerked his head upwards. “Tirowan, Deekin, Kairon. Company meeting upstairs please.” They followed him up the stairs. When they were alone and the doors were shut, Aestith said, “Tim has managed to trap himself in the body of his imp at the Monster Shoppe. I’m inclined to leave him there, but the trouble is, we’d have to do his job.”

Kairon shrugged. “What does Tim even do anyway?”

Tirowan tilted her chin. “Greets people at the door and the bookkeeping.”

“Shit,” Kairon muttered. “Either we’ll have to do it, or we’ll have to pay someone to do it.” He groaned. “Or we rescue Tim.”

Aestith crossed his arms. “He’s been there for hours. It’s uncertain if his body is even still there.”

Deekin seemed pained. “What was he even trying to do?”

Aestith said, “Being Tim, one might assume. Do you suppose it would be in our best interest to rescue him?”

Tirowan flicked her wrist dismissively toward the stairs in a way that fully displayed her lacquered nails. “‘Tis scarcely opening time and a crowd has already gathered. This might be the first busy night we’ve had in days and we are shorthanded even without the four of us gallivanting off to rescue this naive warlock.”

Aestith hesitated. “I was bartending tonight.”

Deekin said, “I can do it.”

He bristled. “Why can’t you go rescue Tim instead?”

Somehow, the dragonborn’s scaly bronze snout and pointed teeth contorted into a winning smile. “Because, Aestith, you’re the only one here who can pick a lock.”

The cleric groaned. What a time for Monkey and Dee’s continued absence. “Fine. Kairon?”

He sighed. “It’s either that or one of us will have to do his job until we can hire someone. I want my armor.” He lumbered up the stairs to dress. Tirowan and Deekin went downstairs. Aestith started to go downstairs, then stopped and followed Kairon.

He knocked on Kairon’s door. “Kairon. It occurs to me that an armored drow and a tiefling in full plate riding a rainbow unicorn through the streets is going to draw attention.”

Kairon’s voice rang as if he were speaking into a metal tube.“Yeah, well, what options do we have?”

Aestith thought for a moment, then told Kairon his idea. The door opened, to make sure that Aestith was serious, then Kairon nodded his agreement. Aestith rushed off to hastily construct a sign and pick through the trash for some string and a few cans. By the time Kairon had his armor on, Aestith had affixed the sign and the cans to Franklin’s saddle.

“People are going to talk about seeing us anyway. It’s best we control the narrative,” Aestith assured Kairon, or perhaps he was only assuring himself.

Kairon raised an eyebrow and swung into the saddle. “Yeah. I agree it’s a good idea. Hang on.”

Aestith clambered behind him and Franklin took off at a gallop. The tin cans echoed behind it. The sign smacked against the summoned creature’s rump. Sometimes, people cheered as they passed, or shouted that they would buy them drinks, but they waved and thundered on, sometimes shouting back, “Just married!”

As they passed the City of the Dead, Aestith leaned back and cut the strings of the sign. It fell and clattered onto the cobblestone behind them.

They climbed off of Franklin a few blocks from the pet shop. Aestith asked a vagrant if he had seen Tim, but he hadn’t. Aestith tossed him a copper and the man, as if sensing trouble, wandered away.

All of the buildings nearby had slanted rooftops and shuttered windows. Aestith and Kairon whispered a plan, and they moved around to the back of the building where Aestith cast Levitate on Kairon. Kairon picked Aestith up and they floated over the side. Kairon stepped awkwardly onto the roof. A brief poking around on the rooftop turned up Tim’s unconscious body stuffed under a table, as if he had tried to hide. The birds in the cages rustled. Aestith went to the door on the roof. There were three locks. He swore and went to work on them while Kairon tried in vain to revive Tim, which seemed to involve slapping.

They stuffed the unconscious body into Aestith’s satchel and wandered down the stairs. The animal urine had soaked into the wood of the petshop over the course of decades until it had permeated and settled. The rotting bedding and poor air ventilation made the air seem heavy with a foul stench. Animals shifted in their too-small cages. Some licked at water bowls long gone dry. Some dug in their fetid bedding for a leftover morsel of food. A heavy chain rattled as an alligator tilted its head to eye Aestith hungrily as he passed.

The cleric and the paladin split up to cover more ground in their search, but the main part of the pet shop only seemed to hold common creatures. Aestith found a trapdoor in a back room, also locked but that proved of little consequence.

Kairon moved the crate off of it after it was unlocked and the two moved down the stairs.

Each creature was in a cage that was too small, similar to the upstairs, and just as poorly cared for. Some of the creatures were contained in iron boxes with narrow air holes. The creatures inside, however, were less mundane.

Kairon and Aestith slayed the two intellect devourers in cages, commented on the jeweled box in a cage that was clearly a mimic. There was a series of iron boxes on the shelves. Kairon moved further down the room and Aestith knocked on each box, trying to discern which was Tim-formerly-known-as-Impy without opening the boxes.

If the creatures could speak, they begged to be released, others tried to bargain, or appeal to his sensibilities.

“What are you?” Aestith asked yet another box.

“What kind of question is that?” the tinny voice inside complained.

Aestith rolled his eyes. “What’s your name?”

“What’s yours?”

He made a face. “What was the name of your first date?”

“Don’t the dates on the calendar already have names?” He rolled his eyes and started to move on, then it said, “Wait! Don’t go. Let me out, please?”

“Why?”

It paused. “Well, I’m scared, and alone. And you seem nice.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh…”

“Would you try to eat me if I let you out?”

“I don’t think so.”

He considered, then yanked Tim’s head out of the bag to make sure it breathed, then stuffed it back in.

“Are you sure you’re not nice? You wouldn’t try to eat a pixie, would you?”

Aestith froze. He glanced one way, then the other, and snatched the iron box. He stuffed it into the satchel and moved to the next box. Another.

The third one knocked back when he knocked. “Who’s there?” it rasped, then cackled. “Hey, look. Let me out. You wanna let me out.”

“No, I think I’ll regret it.”

“Look, kid, we regret lots of things, right? And if you never do anything, you’ll never regret anything, except all the chances you didn’t take. And that’s a big regret, right? Worse than small regrets.”

Aestith snorted, but his lips curved in a smile. “Sure.”

“So what I’m saying is, you wanna let me out.”

“Do I?”

“Yes!”

He chuckled. “What’s your name?”

“Shit by any other name would smell as foul.”

He nodded. “I like you.” He picked up the box and dropped it into the satchel. He had to open it frequently now and let each creature in it breathe, but he worked his way down the line. A cat skeleton laid down in a cage. Aestith at first thought it was an odd choice of taxidermy, but as he approached, it lifted its head and looked at him. He took that too.

He knocked on another iron box.

“Aestith!” it hissed.

He jerked. “How’d you know?”

“Aestith, you’re a drow cleric and obsessed with Lolth.”

“Obsessed?”

“It’s me. It’s Tim. Let me out.”

He rolled his eyes and worked at the lock. It clicked open and the imp burst from the box. Aestith dumped Tim’s body from the satchel and Tim slipped back into it with a sweet relief. He asked about some creature in a cage beside his body, but Aestith held little interest in whatever he had to say.

Kairon trudged back down the hall. “Hey, Aestith, can you pick a lock?”

“Yes? I found Tim. We should go.”

“Come see this.”

Aestith and Tim followed him down the hall, past a cage of sleeping hounds, to a cage that was far too small for even a skinny griffin. Tim could apparently speak to animals, and after some negotiations, Aestith picked the lock, and worked on the heavy iron collar on the creature’s neck.

He wandered back up the stairs and left the other two to deal with the emaciated griffin. Tim came up the stairs, and found the way to the roof. Kairon came up next. The griffin was apparently lumbering slowly behind. Aestith went about the room opening the cages for the animals least likely to attack him--rabbits, cats, dogs, that sort of thing--before he climbed upstairs and opened the bird cages. Kairon and Tim went up the stairs after him. They used a length of rope to rappel down and before they were quite out of range, Aestith broke a window with a cantrip. It had not rained in a number of days, and despite the copious amounts of stale piss soaked into the floor of the building, the wall around the window had been exceptionally dry; it caught flame.

“Damnit, Aestith,” Tim muttered, which was a phrase so second-nature to Aestith’s business partners that it was almost a saying.

Aestith shrugged. “It was an accident, but don’t pretend you and Kairon weren’t discussing burning it down anyway, and Eilora hates this place too.”

Kairon climbed onto Franklin. “We need an alibi. Come, squires, to the Yawning Portal!”

Aestith and Tim shared a glance. Tim muttered in Elvish, “We can ditch him.”

“There are wererats around here,” Aestith said blandly.

Tim scoffed. “You believe that trash in the Gazette?”

Franklin strutted off. Begrudgingly, Tim and Aestith followed him to the Yawning Portal, where they each had a single pint. Aestith took out the boxes every few minutes to ensure they were still breathing. They brought one of the boxes into a nearby alley and had Tim’s imp open it from one end of the alley. The lid flipped back and a monkey with wings burst from it, screaming, “Free!” It flapped furiously and lunged into the air. It wings fought for altitude and caught the wind. The creature disappeared over the rooftops.

“Hey, did that griffin ever escape?” Tim wondered.

“Shit,” Kairon said.

Aestith laughed.

#

The tea steamed a woody aroma of an Underdark brew. Haeltania knew by scent alone that nothing in it could harm her. The exquisitely made glass cup was warm to the touch. In the dim light, she could see the silver-veined pattern of webs embedded in the glass.

Haeltania rarely met anyone who could make her feel less beautiful than she was, and the priestess across from her was no exception; though Ondalia did make Haeltania feel underdressed from the priestess’s immaculately braided hair to her gilded nails and her wine-colored lips. Haeltania should have worn that lipstick at least…

She did not let it bother her; she had more important matters at hand than her appearance. “And so, if I gain your support, we would expand upon our current trade routes to support your own ventures.”

Ondalia sipped her tea and watched. She could be reading Haeltania’s mind. The priestess set the glass cup on its matching saucer. The pot sat between them, the image of a spider set on the interior of the glass. “Do you have your sisters’ support, or are you offering services you cannot fulfill?”

Haeltania tilted her head. “When I am a priestess, Amalette will hardly be worthy of being the matron of my family.” She smiled. “She will step down willingly, I imagine.”

“Should you fail, I will still require payment.”

Haeltania’s lips curled into the beginnings of a sneer. She stifled the expression. “I am Lolth’s Chosen. Aestith is a stupid boy.” She tilted her head. “It is a slaughter, not a real Trial at all really.” She paused. “But I would repay you your initial support, with the opening of the trade agreements when you sponsor me in the church.”

The priestess frowned. “And should you fail, despite your confidence?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “My sisters support me. They will repay you.”

Ondalia nodded. “Consider it done, Chosen of Lolth.” She lifted the cup. “I shall contact the High Priestess nearest Skullport and make some arrangements on your behalf. The rest is entirely in your capable hands. You had best hurry.”

Haeltania set the cup on the serving tray. “I apologize, priestess, but I’ve little time to waste.” Her heart pounded as she left the grand hall, to the front gate. Sailanshin fell into step, slightly behind her and respectful.

“The Lady Ondalia has requested that I am to escort you,” he said.

Haeltania glanced at him. He really did have the most perfect face she had ever seen on a male. He was exquisite. “I would have you accompany me,” she admitted.

He caught the look she gave him, the heave of her chest. He smiled. “We must make haste then.”

She turned from him. She couldn’t afford the luxury of lying with him, not now. She had too many preparations to make, and she had to leave quickly. It was a long journey to Skullport.


	26. Alter Self

Kai looked up from his book as Sailanshin trotted past. He almost tripped in his haste to keep up with him. “What were you doing?” he asked, his voice low. He had the creeping feeling that he would be involved somehow.

Sailanshin rolled his eyes and cast Kai with a lofty expression that reminded Kai all too much of his personal failings. He’d never measure up to Sailanshin. The elder brother said, “Suppose this might be a lesson, Kai. What do you know of my errand, and what can you surmise from it?”

He paused as he stewed over the answer. Sailanshin had gone to Rix, presumably to entice a former lover to bed. What had been her name? It didn’t matter--he had gotten into the house. What did he know of Rix? Not much; Kai was a minor noble and despite that the Rix family had more money than they had ever had, he didn’t really care to learn much about commoners.

Had he planted some delightful surprise there? Or had he been delivering some kind of message? Or something more interesting?

_ Think _ . What did Lady Ondalia want from Rix? What would be to gain in allying or destroying their family? It would turn their social class on their head and create a power vacuum if they were gone, which would be good for the commonfolk, he imagined. But where was the gain for Ondalia, unless she had previously allied with another merchant family? Why, though? Or did this go the other way? Had Rix reached out to Ondalia?

Perhaps it was her trade routes. She had been looking for more surface routes to procure more slaves. That seemed awfully mundane though. He sighed. “I assume it has to do with the slave pits.”

“You’re an idiot, then. Pull your face out of those books once in a while and look around you,” Sailanshin said coldly.

Kai smoldered. “Wizards have to read.”

He snorted. “You really should have pursued fighting.”

“The family doesn’t need two of those, and you’re good enough at it,” he muttered. He left unsaid that he was no competition for Sailanshin in swordplay. His only safe bet in the family was wizardry. But what Sailanshin had not said--had never needed to say--was that Kai probably wasn’t really smart enough to be a wizard.

Sailanshin was silent a long moment. “Kai? I know you didn’t really want to go into wizardry. Did I ever tell you I wanted to be a paladin?”

Kai blinked in surprise. “What?”

He nodded. “Yes. But we are limited by our station and our sex, Kai. Make the best of it.”

The younger nodded, but his shoulders sagged. Sailanshin was perfect, from his looks to his mannerisms, to his intelligence, to say nothing of his grace with the sword. His elder brother just didn’t understand.

Worse, if Sailanshin, perfect as he was, couldn’t be what he had really wanted in life, what hope did Kai have?

#

Tim sat before the small cage on the table and sighed. It was covered by a cloth--the same one that had been with him on the petshop. He looked up at Aestith. “Hey, I’ve been trying to train this ice imp, but it’s not cooperative. It won’t even listen to me and I don’t speak Sylvan anyway.”

Aestith sighed. “Well, perhaps you can skin it and turn it into gloves,” he suggested. Aestith stepped out into the sunlight, and contemplated purchasing a parasol. A hat would ruin his hair, but all this sunlight couldn’t be good for his complexion.

Xaiviryn’s stolen residuum and temple gold was smuggled out of Waterdeep in pieces. Xaiviryn was rather busy and Aestith himself was uninterested in much beyond his temple. He purchased land just out of Waterdeep, past the farms and hidden behind trees. The Piece arranged a meeting with an architect that did some of their own work. The undertaking would be time-heavy and a slow process, but Aestith was patient in this regard; it needed to be done right.

He had his own dreams and visions of it, and Honest Jack was able to put things into a more realistic perspective. For one, there would need to be a road out to the construction site so the workers and the equipment could make it out there. After that, there were all matter of other minor complications that could crop up. Then of course, there was the matter of building permits, and what kind of things Aestith would claim was being built instead, the secret chambers and rooms.

Aestith left Honest Jack to draw up plans. He went to a bank to make a deposit and setup an arrangement so Honest Jack could use the funds without Aestith paying him directly. Arcedi found Aestith in the Trades Ward on his way back, and Aestith decided to detour to his townhouse. Aracnelxeth was entertaining in his way, but even the twenty minute walk to the house felt longer; he was annoying.

Arcedi liked to juggle, and had a set of colored juggling balls he would play with as he walked. It drew attention, and sometimes someone would flip him a coin, which he expertly incorporated into the juggling balls or knives before he pocketed it. If he wasn’t doing that, he would play a beaten viol, or he would dance to any music a street player would play. If he could somehow prevent himself from doing any of these activities, then he would talk incessantly and with passion about whatever subject came to mind. His stories were often long and rambling, and told out of order. He laughed the most at his own jokes and worse puns. He thought it was funny to magically alter a logo on a cart to something more obscene. He lamented it could only last an hour.

If it were all an act to keep people thinking he was a moon elf, Aestith would not be so irritated; it wasn’t an act.

The house had come furnished--though the rents were high due to his race--and Aestith had moved everything from the bedroom into the living room to make room for his laboratory. That door was padlocked and had a glyph placed on the floor, and the front was reinforced.

Aestith put an end to Arcedi’s talking.

He left the pale drow naked on the bed and went to check on his mushroom spores and begin the next batch. A knock at the front door drew him out. Had they been too loud and the neighbors complained? Ridiculous; Aestith was nearly entirely silent in bed.

Aestith poked his head out. “Arcedi, can you get it?”

The pale drow shrugged and yanked on his trousers. He neglected to lace them and wandered toward the door. Aestith turned back to his mushrooms.

“Arcedi, I didn’t realize you knew Aestith.”

Aestith froze, eyes wide. He spun on his heel toward the front door. He took a deep, calming breath and raked his hand through his hair. He tried to hastily finger-comb the curls, then moved sedately toward the door.

Arcedi replied, “Zelvier. Thought you’d be leaving.”

“I wanted to see Aestith before I left.”

Arcedi pulled the door open. Aestith stared at the pair. Xaiviryn was in that damned hat again. Arcedi stepped back, arm out inviting. Xaiviryn strode inside and Arcedi shut the door. The disguise shed like discarded clothing.

They were really a perfect pair. Xaiviryn was a bit taller, but his skin was beautifully dark and offset the unnatural paleness of Aracnelxeth’s skin. They were opposite sides of a color spectrum. Their personalities reflected that too.

Aestith crossed his arms. “I appreciate you dropping by. Uninvited and without being told I rent this place. What’s the occasion?”

He glanced at the unnatural setup in the parlor. “I was just going to invite you to my house. I have a gift for you.” He glanced at Arcedi. “If you’re busy, I suppose you can come by later, though I plan on leaving in the morning with the tide if I am not delayed.”

Aestith hoped his discomfort did not show. “You aren’t interrupting anything.”

Xaiviryn’s gaze flicked past Aestith, to the rumpled bed, and back at Arcedi. A faint wisp of a smile sat smugly on the pale drow’s face. Xaiviryn tilted his head. “Well, Arcedi, I would have thought Aestith would be too much for you.”

“I imagine Aestith is really precisely what you would most prefer, though, isn’t he?”

Xaiviryn blinked. “He?”

Arcedi’s eyebrows rose in mock surprise. “You never actually asked Aestith if he thought of himself as male or female, did you? You just made assumptions.”

Xaiviryn’s lips curved into the beginnings of a sneer, then he smirked. “No, I suppose there were always other things on my mind, with little space for such trivialities. I’m glad that he can talk to you, though.”

Aestith’s teeth clenched. “You can either end your petty conflicts now, or take it outside. I’ve no interest in it.”

Xaiviryn smiled. “But I have interest in it.” He glanced at Arcedi. “Several interests, in fact, if the albino is willing.”

Arcedi bristled, and Aestith thought the other would storm out in a huff of indignance, but he stepped forward. “Aestith?” His earnest expression could have been taken as either a plea to end this line of discussion, or else as invitation, and Aestith could not, on Arcedi’s pale raised-by-faeries face, distinguish the two.

But the albino had long ago submitted to Aestith’s will. Aestith smiled. “Well, if it is to be like that, you had best undress, Xaiviryn.” Aestith gestured. “Arcedi, please help him.”

Arcedi slunk toward Xaiviryn, subservient as he ever had been to Aestith. Xaiviryn’s fingers ran over Arcedi. Arcedi only tolerated it; his interest in males was only the same way that Aestith occasionally liked a sandwich. His movements were dutiful, at the first, kneeling to unlace Xaiviryn’s boots, then Xaiviryn lifted him up, bent his head and kissed Arcedi’s pale throat. A short, startled gasp escaped his throat--a noise Aestith recognized as a pleasant sound.

Xaiviryn may have touched and groped Arcedi, but he watched Aestith. Arcedi was like a toy that both of them enjoyed and Aestith was each of their primary interest.

Arcedi was the first of them to stop and slunk to the sofa, then came back when the other two had finished to slide behind Aestith. They were nearly the same height, and he fit perfectly around Aestith’s body. Arcedi’s dampened eclectic hair spilled over the bed. Xaiviryn lay on his back, two fingers played along one of Arcedi’s long braids until he reached the jade bead at the end, where he let the braid fall against the mattress. Another braid sported a tattered red feather, a thin dreadlock a coil of copper wire. Most held nothing.

Xaiviryn’s lips formed a semi-permanent self-satisfied smirk. “Aestith, do you have wine or anything here?”

Aestith snorted. “I just moved in and all my furniture is in the living room, so what do you think?”

He nodded. “Of course. Arcedi, a pitcher of water, if you please.”

Slowly, the albino pulled from the bed. He tossed his head slightly, his beautiful mess of hair thumping against his back. He wandered toward the water pump. Aestith stretched. “That went well,” he mused.

Xaiviryn shrugged. “Oh, it was all right. You should have told me you liked threesomes, though. Arcedi likes you, but he isn’t as interested in men as I’d like. We could organize something else.”

Aestith laughed. “If but we had the time.”

“Yes, I suppose. Which reminds me, come back with me to my townhouse. There’s something I’d like to give you before I go.”

He sat up, surprised. “Besides the money?”

“Yes.”

Aestith’s lips pursed. “Why’d you come over?”

“I wanted to speak to you before I left. We can do that later.”

Arcedi came back with the copper pitcher and a set of mugs. “Aestith, your kitchen is almost completely bare.”

“I am cognizant of this, yes.”

Arcedi gave Aestith a cup first, then passed a filled cup to Xaiviryn. Arcedi had marked his position in the hierarchy. Xaiviryn shifted, as if uneasy. Had he wanted to be at the top? How could he, male as he was? Xaiviryn drank, and seemed to forget his discomfort, or shove it aside.

Aestith grew restless. He had little tolerance for “cuddling” and would have liked to go back to making candy. He slid from the bed and found a comb. Without Aestith, the other two got up. Arcedi was lackadaisical about it, but Xaiviryn was dressed before Aestith. He entertained himself by asking Arcedi pointed questions while Aestith fixed his hair.

“So, the star map on your body. Are you aware of where it leads?”

“Can’t imagine why it would even matter.”

Xaiviryn snorted. “Didn’t you say you were a sailor once?”

“I don’t think I mentioned that to you, no. Has Feinrekt gone telling stories again, Zelvier?”

Xaiviryn tilted his head. “Well, when I ask, he tells me of course.”

A condescending grin tugged on Arcedi’s mouth. “Ah, poor you. So much responsibility. So many possible knives in your back at any given time.”

“And you, without a care in the world, no names or titles or land to weigh you down, nor money to gamble away or misplace.”

Aestith rolled his eyes and laced his boots. “Zelvier, are we going?”

He turned his head toward Aestith. “Yes. I’ll find a carriage.” He reached for his hat and glanced back at Arcedi. “Are you coming along, Arcedi?”

“Nah.” He flopped over onto the sofa, which had been jammed awkwardly against a table. Aestith and Xaiviryn left him there. A carriage was waiting.

The carriage trundeld toward Xaiviryn’s townhouse. Aestith said, “How do you know Aracnelxeth?”

Xaiviryn shrugged one shoulder. “An albino drow with moon elf tattoos, and raised as one, would have been useful, particularly with his talents. I attempted to recruit him.” He made a sour expression. “He turned me down.”

Aestith nodded. “Sounds like Arcedi.”

Xaiviryn tilted his head. “He said he was tired of taking orders and working for someone else, but he’ll obey you.”

“Mostly. Arcedi has his own agenda, and I have to be careful about what I ask.” He inspected his nails. “I wouldn’t rely too heavily on him.”

“Have you considered what you want for the temple?”

Aestith raised his eyes to Xaiviryn’s face. There had been an inflection on the last few syllables that implied ownership. “Lolth’s temple should be underground, so as much as I’d like to have it closer to me, I can’t build such a thing within the city limits. I purchased land and have discussed building prospects with a contractor. Such a thing will take months, but it will give me time to find proper furnishings.”

“You’ve been busy the past few days.”

The cleric smiled. “Xaiviryn, you’ve given me that which I most desired. I do not consider the founding of this temple to be settling for less than serving in one at home. To the contrary, in fact. It is ideal, aside from being on the surface.” He laced his fingers together. “Which brings me to another point, you wish me to be a contact for you in Waterdeep. That I can do. And, when time permits, I can run errands for you if you so desire, but my primary focus and what I must always weigh your wishes against will be the running of this temple and my duties to Lolth.”

The human guise nodded. “Aestith, that is exactly as I would wish, and exactly what a  priestess of Lolth should be.”

_ Priestess. _ He swallowed. The carriage rolled to a stop and Xaiviryn moved to the door. Aestith tried to control his shaking hands. 

There were people coming and going around the house, mostly from the basement and out the door. Xaiviryn brought Aestith to his room. An open wardrobe proved it was empty, save a single item. Xaiviryn went to the wardrobe and hung his hat.

“I’ve a last gift for you.” He removed the item from the hanger.

The dress was perfectly tailored to Aestith’s body, perhaps going off of Xaiviryn’s intimate knowledge of it. It was a riding dress, exactly as Aestith preferred, meant to be worn with the matching deep rothe skin pants. The purple four-ply silk lining shimmered with silver thread in a web pattern, finely woven into the threads rather than stitched over it. The purple silk trimmed the cuffs and the deep neckline. Like a high priestess’s robes.

Aestith reached for the dress, gently pulling it from the other’s grasp. It was heavy, a light armor in its own right, with some kind of enchantment on it. 

His heartbeat thundered in his ears and threatened to break his ribs. He set the dress on the barren table. His fingers traced the silver web pattern finely woven into the spider silk. The leather was smooth and supple, obtained at high expense from the Underdark. Each of the seven amber buttons entrapped a tiny spider. An eighth dangled from a necklace on a fine gold chain.

It was beautiful. It symbolized everything he wanted in the world, everything he could become. No male drow could wear something like it. There might be male clerics, but no high priests. Such a position was not fit for a male. Did Aestith dare to even attempt it? Or was he female enough and worthy? Only Lolth would know.

Wrenching his eyes from the dress was a slow, almost painful, movement. Xaiviryn’s face was unreadable as he waited for Aestith’s reaction.

“You’ve given me all I could ask for. What do you wish of me?” Aestith inquired.

Xaiviryn’s hands settled on Aestith’s hips. “Loyalty.” He bent his head as if to impart a kiss. “May I request that you will continue to be loyal to me, should I have need of you?”

Aestith’s hands gripped the other’s shoulders. “So long as this relationship continues to be mutually beneficial and does not interfere with my duties to Lolth.”

“I’d never stand in the way of that.” His lips covered Aestith’s.

#

Sometime after morning back at the Traveler’s Club, Aestith slipped into the dress and looked at himself in the heavy full-length mirror. He turned to one side and the hem just brushed his ankles. The dress had interior pockets. It conformed to his body perfectly and swayed with his hips when he walked in a manner that accentuated his form. The sleeves could be detached. It was enchanted beyond what any of his other items were. It was not only beautiful; it was practical.

He wondered, like Haeltania contemplating a dark shade of red on her lips, if it was too bold. If he truly dared to wear such a thing, if it were sacrilegious. He had not yet earned the mark of high priestess, had he?

He removed it and put on his normal attire.

Xaiviryn had sent half of his men with a caravan and he took the rest of their goods onto a caravel. He may have planned to leave that morning, but some matter delayed him and he said he had to see someone about his townhouse and some other business. Aestith couldn’t imagine him roughing it by traveling over land.

Tirowan rapped on the opposite door. “Aestith, it’s been hours! I need to bathe before opening.”

He scowled. “That’s hours away.” He went to his room and shut the door anyway. He locked it from his side. He hung the dress in a garment bag in his tower.

In the common room, Tim was showing off his latest pet to a bored-looking Kairon and a disgusted Tirowan. He turned toward Aestith. “Aestith! Meet Handsy.” A crawling claw scampered from Tim’s robe to sit obediently on his shoulder. “We’re psionically linked.”

Aestith attempted not to unintentionally mimic Tirowan’s expression. “I see. Well. It’s important to accomplish one’s life goals, I suppose.”

He left to finalize construction plans with Honest Jack, which was more involved than he had originally thought. There was talk of materials, types of tile, mosaics. What sort of hidden doors or traps he might require. He would need artists too, sculptors. The Piece had a few such contacts, Honest Jack assured him. Aestith needed to drop off a shipment of candy anyway.

At the Traveler’s Club that evening, they had interviews and even hired on a few people. Tim took care of orientation, and the new manager spent several hours redoing Tim’s accounting. While Aestith disliked Richard on principle because he was an elf, he supported the way Tim glowered and huffed when Richard corrected Tim’s errors and presented Tim with an updated accounting ledger.

He particularly disliked the new barkeep, Rhyder, but so long as the elf was bringing in clients, he had little to complain about. Rhyder reorganized the menu and took the time to make unique themed drinks for each room. They had not bothered with mixed drinks prior, so the extra mixers and liquor was a small but necessary expense, and the patrons approved.

Eilora commented that Boris was going hunting Giant Eagles in the mountains, and asked if they wanted to join the hunt. The plan was to take some of Boris’s flying mounts to hunt the eagles. Aestith was disinclined to go, but the opportunity to make Eilora awkward was quite tempting. Getting away from the city would be nice too; he just didn’t want to fly there.

“Where is it?” Aestith sighed.

“Somewhere near Neverwinter.”

He tilted his head. “You don’t say. When are we leaving?”

“Dawn at the north gate.”

He nodded once. “Right. Well, have fun with that.” He took a carriage down to the docks. 

Finding Xaiviryn was surprisingly simple. Aestith stayed back for a moment and watched him bawl at the dock workers, berate the foreman about the handling of particular crates, and all around be the kind of person you want to quickly get rid of. He hid in plain sight by drawing attention to himself. 

Aestith wasn’t one to ruin his fun, so he found Feinrekt. Aestith wasn’t as familiar with each of their individual disguises, particularly because they could change, but he recognized the way Feinrekt moved and the cadence of his footsteps on the planks. “You walk like a riding lizard,” Aestith mused.

He grinned. “A parade lizard. The sort that have been trained and bred for high-stepping, because it looks poised and dignified.” He set the box down on the pallet and walked to another small box. “What are you doing here?”

“Should I not be here? Take what I wanted and leave, is that what you’re implying I should have done?” Aestith feigned a scoff. “Suppose I’ll keep in mind that this is what you expect from me.”

He propped an elbow on the box and raised an eyebrow. His grin conveyed precisely what he knew about Aestith.  _ Damnit, Xaiviryn, you immature twit. No one cares about your sexual conquests. _ Feinrekt tilted his head toward Xaiviryn. “That good, huh?”

Aestith fought down a sudden blush. He was glad it wasn’t dark and both of them were limited to inferior vision. He made a face. “I need a ride to Neverwinter.”

He nodded, then turned his head. “Hey, Zelvier,” he called.

Xaiviryn spun toward them. His open brocade coat shifted as he moved. He held up a finger to the unfortunate dock workers he was verbally abusing, and moved away from them. The other seemed relieved. He stopped in front of them and gave a very elaborate bow. Aestith crossed his arms and sighed. Xaiviryn said, “To what do I owe the pleasure, dear lady?”

Aestith rolled his eyes. “Zelvier, do you suppose you could drop me off in Neverwinter? I am off to slay some Giant Eagles, though I’ve little interest in flying there.”

Xaiviryn’s eyes roved over Aestith. “Of course. Fortunately for you, I was delayed. I hope to catch the tide tomorrow evening, though.”

“Is there a reason you’re always running late?”

He grinned, as if amused. “Am I late? Everything always seems to work out for the best.” He looked at Feinrekt. “See that the lady has a cabin, please.”

Feinrekt glanced at Aestith, a look of long-suffering. “Aye.”

Xaiviryn waded away, voice shifting back to the affected accent he had taken up to yell at the miserable workers. Feinrekt’s lips pursed. “Won’t you just stay with him the whole time anyway?”

Aestith snorted. “Well, not if I’m in bed with half the rest of the crew.”

Feinrekt laughed.

Aestith started to leave, but Xaiviryn stopped him and asked him to dinner. Neither ate much and Aestith suggested that they could incorporate a few of their rather unique talents into bed. Aestith looked over Xaiviryn’s handiwork with the spell and frowned. “My ass is not that fat, and you were quite liberal with my breasts.”

The slightly enhanced copy of himself smirked. “How long do you suppose it will take you to break my concentration?”

Aestith pushed the other into bed. Xaiviryn did his best, but could not maintain his concentration for the entire hour. It shattered, awkwardly but with some warning, in between a gasp that broke into laughter.

The Desmaduke tower had been rendered and fallen, the residuum safely smuggled out of Waterdeep with the stolen gold. The headlines had all been about it since the morning after. Aestith had been the one to inspire Arcedi to raid the noble’s house, but the other tasks had been relatively simple. What Xaiviryn had done with Emerick would have been more than enough. The temple was more than he could have wished. Why was Xaiviryn acting this way? What had Aestith really done to help? Or was it just more assurance for Aestith’s continued loyalty? That seemed to be important to Xaiviryn.

“How’s the temple coming along?”

“Slowly,” Aestith admitted. “I wasn’t anticipating such patronage, I must admit.”

Blue eyes studied Aestith. “It is an expense I gladly make.”

Aestith felt warm, beyond the warmth of the room. Something like his blood warming him, but deeper and somehow buoyant. He didn’t understand it. “And in exchange?”

Xaiviryn leaned back. He made a face, then rolled his neck until his spine clicked. “I told you who that clerk you had was?”

“Yes.”

“I hadn’t arrived in town yet, and we were being watched. I heard that the drop itself was less than ideal, however, and a rival faction received word of the situation, and when they had trouble breaking in, I believe they tipped off the guard as well. Yet you somehow managed to keep the clerk secure, so well done there.” He smiled. “And, yes, I could have had someone else steal the letters, but again, we were expected, so I had to send someone else. Preferably someone with ties to the city and a clean criminal record.” His eyes rolled toward the ceiling, as if in defiance of the station in life he had been born into. “Then Arcedi said he wouldn’t have gone into that house had you not asked him. Getting on the tour was clever too. I would have tried to sneak inside. You should keep him around. He’d be useful.” His eyes flicked back down, smoldered briefly, then cooled to blue. “He would have been invaluable in my troupe. An albino drow with no need of a disguise, and his skillset.” He shrugged. “Ah, well. My point, Aestith, is that I have more money than even I was anticipating I might have. And you have been a help in that.”

“Don’t buy my affections.”

A pause. “In a few months, when the temple has been constructed, I’ll send a wizard to Waterdeep. I’m interested in placing a teleportation circle in the temple.”

Aestith nodded. “You and yours could use it for smuggling in and out merchandise and I could get imported fruit more easily.”

He chuckled. “It would benefit both of us.”

There was that warmth again. What was this? How could he know what it was?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus this chapter! My group had a commission done: https://imgur.com/rspgMSi
> 
> Left upper to right:
> 
> Tirowan. Tim. Deekin front and center because of course. Monkey. Kairon. Aestith.
> 
> Lower: DM who is sick of our shit, Dee, and Eilora and Cakecake.


	27. Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! You'll notice that I did some editing. I basically just spliced two chapters and put them in other surrounding chapters, which caused a reorder. You're not missing anything. (Though I am deeply considering doing some overhaul... that may include editing in all the sex scenes. Truth be told, I actually do write all of them and they are super super graphic, but then I have like 10 pages of plot and 20 pages of sex scene, so something has to give. If I edit them in, I won't have a new chapter next week... but there will be new stuff.)
> 
> Thanks for reading!

By noon the next day, Eilora contacted Aestith on the Sending Stone and requested that he bring goggles. He bought three pairs, and went to Xolob’s shop for Tim’s pair. The gnome was outside, painting his sign purple, which really only obscured the sign. Aestith wasn’t so certain it really needed a sign.

Aestith said, “Xolob. I’m looking for a pair of goggles.”

“I have goggles!” he said. He climbed down the purple ladder and dashed into the store. He came out with a pair of goggles that had clearly, at some point, been dipped repeatedly in purple paint and left to dry in less than ideal circumstances.

“Perfect.” Aestith bought them.

“I have more new things,” Xolob said.

“Like what?”

Xolob showed him a few small items and trinkets, including a participation trophy dunked in purple paint. Aestith took that too and walked away before Xolob could try to sell him any more purple junk.

He had half a mind to give it to Xaiviryn, say it was for his efforts at the brothel the other day, but he knew exactly how that would go. Without breaking eye contact, Xaiviryn would take the trophy and drop it directly into the water. That would be amusing, but it wouldn’t be near as much fun as what he intended.

The little caravel was fast with a fairly light load of cargo. They mostly hugged the coast. Aestith wasn’t sure if night or day were worse. Xaiviryn spent much of his time actually working, which Aestith found to be pleasantly surprising. He had to write letters, work with Feinrekt on a few papers that Aestith suspected were forgeries, and things of that nature.

Aestith had learned all he usefully could about whoever was willing to talk to him at any given point. They didn’t mind sharing gossip with him, but inquiring about an individual’s history was a sure way for them to be suddenly suspicious. Aestith knew better, though. He learned that Eiranish had used to occasionally share Xaiviryn’s bed, until he met Ryze. Bingath had a half-drow child from a whore who had only bedded him when he was disguised, which had been the cause of many jokes between the troupe. Aestith commented that Xaiviryn must have many half-drow children scattered about, but they had laughed, said that was impossible because Xaiviryn insisted each whore he was with take a drought from a particular wineskin he kept, and it was proof against such things.

He had never had Aestith swallow this concoction, and Aestith wasn’t sure what he thought of that.

Most of Xaiviryn’s troupe had gone with the caravel, and the sailors on the ship were hirelings, who probably suspected each of the troupe were drow, but never said anything about it; they were being paid. Aestith had nothing to do with them.

Usually, if Aestith were bored, he would cook or start on another trashy novel. Sometimes, Eilora or Kairon would tell him what they were doing respectively. They had of course made it to Neverwinter before him, and allocated rooms at an inn. Eilora and Boris left to scout for the nests, which they suspected would take some time.

In Neverwinter, Xaiviryn hinted strongly that Aestith should come to his villa. Aestith said, “I’ll never get anything done, and neither will you.”

He nodded. “I received word from that other drow I know, the one like you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

He raised a hand, a thin sheaf of paper between two fingers. “When I used Sending to contact him, he said he had to think about it. He did.” He passed the slip of paper to Aestith, and clarified the address.

Aestith glanced at it, then thanked Xaiviryn. Xaiviryn paused. “Would you like me to escort you?”

“No. I would prefer to speak with them unaccompanied, if you please.”

A pause, and the expression on his face, even disguised, implied distaste at leaving Aestith alone, though if he thought it were dangerous to Aestith, he would say so. Why, then? Xaiviryn said, “Are you certain you don’t want to see my villa?”

“I have some errands to run and some eagles to kill.”

He shrugged one shoulder, told him where he would be anyway, and went back to work. In Neverwinter, he was rather polite to the dock workers.

The drow Aestith was looking for lived somewhere nearby, and the cleric walked slowly toward it. The houseboat floated, semi-permanently moored to a dock. A magpie perched on the railing of the boat. When it saw Aestith, it fluttered around the side of the boat, and did not come back the other way. There was no gangplank.

Aestith hesitated, then gripped the side of the boat. With a short hop, aided by Guidance, he maneuvered onto the deck. He walked slowly toward the cabin and knocked. The door jerked open by some invisible hand, but no one was there. Cheap parlor tricks.

Aestith glanced about, then stepped into the darkened room. The windows had heavy curtains that blotted out the afternoon sunlight. One window was open.

The workshop glowed with soft dancing lights and affixed spheres hanging from the ceiling. Every bench, table, and shelf were covered in gears and half-finished works. An automaton cat prowled about the floor, silent for all of its gears. The magpie perched on a wooden coat rack from which dangled a variety of leather aprons.

The drow at the table was bent over something and as Aestith approached, he stilled. He at first thought that the other’s left arm had been replaced by an automaton one, but the gaps revealed the crude, barely functioning arm still inside it. The drow had a tool in one hand, delicately tuning something near the wrist. With a pop, it opened. He slid the mechanical glove off. The fingers twitched, but did not flex. Aestith imagined that it was the most movement the mutilated hand was capable of. The other’s skin was the deep black of a highborn, so dark it was almost blue. All the luster had been scorched out of the arm all the way to the fingertips. The muscle had waned and the skin looked almost necrotic.

The drow lifted the dud arm, turning the hand more with use of the shoulder and elbow than the wrist. The glove was set on the workbench and the drow bent to look at some tiny piece on the connecting wrist. Made an adjustment, then set the tool down to pick up the glove. Setting it back over the hand was an ordeal, more akin to stuffing a mannequin’s stiffened fingers into gloves than a living hand. As it connected, the gears wound and the leather strapping compressed back around the hand. The fingers gripped, released. The tool made one more slight tweak, then was set aside. The other turned toward Aestith.

“What can I do for you, sister?” the other asked blandly. They were only wearing a leather apron above the waist that somewhat covered breasts.

Aestith was silent a short moment. “I was born male, actually.”

“And what do you prefer now?”

He shrugged. “I prefer female accoutrements, but I suppose I’ll always be male in my head.”

The other nodded, as if that made perfect sense, then looked back at the workbench. “For me, it was always more of an inconvenience. The breasts, I mean.” The mechanical hand waved vaguely. “Attached to me, but they’re not mine.”

“What can I call you?”

“Edajin.” A pause. “Male.”

Aestith could have guessed as much. Men’s clothing, shoulder-length hair pulled back, but more as if it meant fewer haircuts than for vanity. His hair was gray, with occasional strands of pale yellow. For that, the shoulders, the stature, was more feminine--drow feminine, that is to say. He was tall for a drow and stronger than a male. Except for that arm. A long scar snaked up from the arm, over his neck to kiss his jaw. 

Edajin must have seen Aestith looking. He said, “My sister found out. Decided to torture me to death. She should have killed me quickly.”

Aestith shrugged one shoulder. “I always thought that torture was horribly insufficient.”

He grunted. “It is effective at the one thing it does.”

Aestith leaned a hip against the workbench. “You work for Zelvier?”

“Used to.” He rotated something that clicked on the arm then picked something up from the bench. “There weren’t very many options for me, so I worked for him until I didn’t need to. He’s still a good client though.” Edajin tested the device, sliding it until it locked in the arm. He frowned, picked up a tool to adjust it. “Did you need something?”

“I wanted to meet you. Not for your skills. I just wanted to see you.”

He paused, eyes flicked toward Aestith, but still couldn’t quite bring himself to look at Aestith’s face. He looked down, seemed satisfied with the adjustment, and set the tool back in its rack. He tilted his head, then turned and pointed the arm at the wall. A tiny crossbow lifted from the mechanism, tension adjusted, then fired a dart into the board. He lowered the arm and it slid back into place. He swore as he stomped toward the board. He walked with a limp, but did not flinch when he put weight on the leg, as if the limp were more habit than necessary.

“Nearly an inch off. Shit.” He pulled the dart from the board and stalked back to the bench with a sigh.

Aestith smiled. “You’re good at this sort of thing.” He inclined his head toward the workbench.

He shrugged his good shoulder. “Could be better if I had full mobility of my arm, I imagine.”

The cleric paused. “Did Xaiviryn tell you that I am a cleric of Lolth, and we are building a temple?”

Pale green eyes flicked toward Aestith. “What would you wish of me, cleric of Lolth?”

Aestith tilted his head. “I was going to try to find someone else to do something for me, but after seeing your work, I believe you are best suited to it. And I believe I would want no one else to do it.” He explained his rather marvel and unique idea. As he spoke, Edajin interjected with better ideas, then seemed inspired. He went to a drawing table and tossed a scroll of paper onto the floor. He pinned a fresh sheet and took a charcoal pencil. He sketched furiously, as if he were unaware of Aestith’s existence, then he lifted his head to ask a question or tell Aestith about the limitations and possibilities.

The cat watched with mismatched eyes from the floor. The magpie alighted on its master’s shoulder.

Drow did not feel pity; that would require an empathy that they did not possess, but Aestith felt as if it might be easy for those who didn’t know any better to pity Edajin, for what had been done to his arm and leg. His sister may have taken those things from him, but it was nothing that Edajin could not give back to himself. When Aestith had been speaking to him, before he mentioned the project, Edajin had struck Aestith as being not so dissimilar to himself; lonely. He was closer to other drow, geographically, than Aestith at any given point--but he was lonely, even if he wasn’t alone. As he worked, he seemed less lonely, but somehow more solitary, as if he closed off the world and narrowed it to his workshop, the way Desarandian did.

Perfection was an ideal to strive for; it was what Drow sought, in themselves and what was around them. Aestith, caught somewhere between male and female, was an abomination, an imperfection and a blemish to be removed. He and Edajin polluted the race by continuing to exist when they should have been killed for their imperfections. Aestith’s eyes flicked to the dartboard, to the disassembled machinery and weapons. His fist tightened as he thought of the power he commanded.  _ Let them try _ . Aestith was imperfect, and he’d never reach the physical perfection considered ideal--and so what?

Edajin turned his weak arm and leg into a strength; Arcedi never hid his flaws, had never learned to--and Aestith admired both of them.

“I’ll send word to you when it is at the point where I will require this,” Aestith said.

“Of course.”

A pause. His eyes roved down the other’s broad back. He really did look quite feminine. “Excuse me if this is too forward, but did you want any company tonight?”

“No, I work best alone--Ah.” His back straightened. “No. You’re a bit too masculine for my taste, I’m afraid.”

Aestith tried not to let his disappointment show. “You are not entirely built like me, then? I have feminine genitalia as well.”

The other tilted his head. “Intriguing. No, I suspect I’d never leave the house if that were the case.” He smirked to himself. He glanced at Aestith. “I would be curious, but only professionally.” His eyes roved down Aestith’s stature. “You really are too masculine though. Perhaps another time, when I’m intoxicated or something.”

“It could be now.”

He laughed, but it was clearly only to take the sting out of his next rejection. “I’m afraid I’m really quite interested in this project of yours. I’d never be able to concentrate on anything else.”

Aestith sighed. It was better than being called an abomination, which had happened a few times. He had always tried not to let it bother him, but the rejection was a whip that left barbs. “Very well. Please keep in touch.”

“I shall.”

Aestith found the inn and checked into his own room. Eilora and Boris arrived in the evening. Tim was less than thrilled with his glasses. “Really?”

The cleric looked on innocently. “What? They came like that.”

Tim sighed, apparently deciding it wasn’t worth complaining about.

Aestith commented, “Nice gloves.”  
Tim grinned. “I followed your advice about the ice imp. They don’t really do much, but they are good for chilling beer.”

“That’s useful.”

Aestith gave Boris the purple participation trophy, explaining, “For your more intimate efforts with Eilora.”

Eilora’s face heated, somewhere between embarrassment and rage. Boris stared at the trophy, confused and uncertain of what to do with it. He said, “Ah. Thanks. You know, all of my other trophies are first place. One second place, in an archery contest, and I’m fairly certain that man was cheating.”

Aestith rolled his eyes. “Someone would have to cheat to best you, Boris.”

He frowned. “You’re being sarcastic, but it’s true.” He went on to elaborate the tale of the archery contest in over-embellished detail. The trophy sat untouched in front of them and Eilora’s face only continued to redden and contort. He smiled sweetly at her and was almost surprised when she didn’t attempt to bash his face in with the trophy.

They left in the morning to hunt. Boris did well as expected, and Aestith used spells, which Boris complained about ruining trophies. Kairon and Tim also fared well, but Eilora was still suffering from the mortal embarrassment of the participation trophy, and missed the eagle badly.

They returned to the inn and Boris went about making sure that his trophy would be well taken care of on its voyage back to Waterdeep. He regaled the inn’s patrons with his most recent hunting tale, drinking heavily the whole while.

Aestith had a single drink and went to retire for the evening. As he was getting his roomkey from the innkeep, the door behind him opened.

“Aestith!” Tim called.

Aestith pocketed the key and turned slowly toward him. He was alone. “Hello, Tim.”

Sweat beaded over Tim’s pasty face and collected in the pits of his sleeves. “Aestith, I need your advice.”

Aestith groaned, and stopped his retreat to his room and meandered toward the common room instead. They sat apart from the others, and Aestith flatly asked him what he wanted, in Elvish.

Tim whispered in the same tongue, “I went to the Jewelbox.”

“What?”

“That really nice brothel we went to last time.”

“Oh, of course. And?”

Tim made a face. “Well, I wanted to ask them for some tips on how to run our brothel—”

“What?” He straightened. “Tim, we’re a rival business. That’s not good business practice.”

“We’re from another city!” he insisted.

“This reflects very poorly on us.” Aestith shook his head. “What else did you do?”

He squirmed. “Well, they weren’t very friendly. And I may have broken a window, jumped through it, got shot at, and escaped.”

Aestith’s eyes bulged. His jaw dropped. “What? No. No, tell me  _ everything _ that happened.”

The truth was only worse; Tim had given the name of the city they were from, and brought Kairon with him into the brothel. He had even yelled “Kairon, time to go” before making his impromptu and utterly unnecessary escape through an expensive window. He had shattered the glass and the brothel security had shot at him and missed due to Tim’s invisibility spell. He had managed to lose them and used another spell to disguise himself and hurried back here. Kairon had stayed behind at the brothel, and it was only by some small miracle that the brothel security did not have him arrested by association with Tim.

Aestith blinked twice in stunned silence. He twitched slightly. “Tim, seriously, what the fuck?”

Tim stared at Aestith like a goblin slave at an angry master. He shrugged helplessly.

Aestith pinched the bridge of his nose as he tried to think of what Tim could reasonably do. “You need to leave town. Now.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s not a big deal—”

He dropped his palm flat against the table. “Tim, what did we do when someone broke one of our windows?”

Tim’s already pallid skin grew paler with lack of blood.

“Leave. Now.”

Tim, like an idiot, did not leave. Aestith informed him that he would not be helping him this time. Tim hung around the inn, and Kairon arrived. Eilora, Aestith, Kairon, and Tim sat at one table while Tim and Kairon filled Eilora in on the goings-on.

Kairon added, “And it turns out, they had a tiefling courtesan. And I needed an alibi.”

Eilora and Aestith stared at Kairon flatly. Aestith said, “That was idiotic. If they had realized you were with Tim, things may have gone quite poorly for you.”

Eilora shook her head. “Tim, what the fuck?”

Tim threw up his hands. “What am I supposed to do?”

Aestith shook his head. “I keep telling you, you need to leave town. Right the fuck now.”

“Well, aren’t we leaving in the morning?” Tim whined.

Aestith stared at him flatly. “I suggest you leave. I will not help you when they come looking for you.”

“Same,” Eilora declared.

Tim looked desperately at Kairon. The tiefling shrugged one shoulder. “No one made you do that.”

Tim looked around. “Well, it’s a big city. They couldn’t find me that quickly, right?”

Aestith sighed and gestured at Boris, who had told everyone he had come across about their adventures with the Giant Eagles, and did not skimp on the names or descriptions of their group. Tim swiped sweat from his brow.

Aestith turned to Eilora. “Eilora, we haven’t had time to talk recently. Tell me about Boris.”

She glowered. She had clearly not forgotten the participation trophy. “We’re good, thanks.”

He nodded. “How was the sex?”

She made a face, then relaxed in the chair and sipped her drink. “Well, he deserves more than a participation trophy.”

“Do tell,” Aestith invited. Eilora proceeded to elaborate, in detail, about their sexual adventures. TIm and Kairon whispered to one another, then Tim finally, nearly half an hour later, decided he needed to leave, and Kairon agreed to go with him. They took one of Boris’s griffins.

Aestith glanced at Boris. “You might need to reign in your boyfriend a bit or we might have trouble because of Tim.”

She groaned. “Yeah, ok.” She got up to talk with him. She took him outside and they returned a while later. He went to his room, and she sat down with Aestith. “Fucking Tim.”

“Right?” Aestith sipped his wine.

The front door opened. A goliath and a minotaur stalked through the room, asking questions. They had a tattoo of a gem on their shoulders. Aestith sipped his wine, listening to what they were asking. Clearly about Tim, and someone pointed to Aestith and Eilora. The huge pair tromped to Eilora and Aestith’s table.

The goliath said, “We’re looking for someone. About yea height. Skinny half-elf. Seen with you.” He gave a short description of Tim.

Aestith shrugged one shoulder. “He’s some warlock from Thay.”

The goliath nodded and called to the barkeep to send Aestith a drink on their tab. They nodded to Aestith and left.

“I see nothing bad that can come from this,” Eilora muttered.

Aestith finished his wine. “I keep saying, we should head to the Underdark.”

“And come back to a brothel burned to the ground…”

He shrugged. “We have insurance. And if we only need to get to Skullport, we know a way down through the catacombs.”

“I thought that was the Port of Shadows.”

“Same difference, apparently.”

Eilora got up. Cakecake followed her out the door. Aestith left the second drink untouched and went to his room. The trip back to Waterdeep was faster but far more uncomfortable with worse company than the trip to Neverwinter.

He couldn’t actually ride a griffin, but he could ride as a passenger, which was fine as he spent much of the flight nauseated and trying to keep his eyes firmly shut. The idea of the sky all around him, suspended so far above the earth, horizon on all sides was enough to make him sick. Actually seeing it was worse, and he never wanted to get on such a creature again. He did, every time they stopped to rest, and he hated it just as much each time, but he had always been more stubborn than smart and he got back on it.

When they arrived at Waterdeep, Eilora took off to the Traveler’s Club, but Aestith went to his townhouse. Arcedi wasn’t there, but the place was locked as it should be, and the pixie was still alive, so the pale drow had taken care of it at least. The zombie cat was in its cage. He should see if it were hostile. He performed a few minor tests on it contained in the cage, but it did not act aggressive. He brought it into the small, mostly barren pantry, and opened the cage. Slowly, it sauntered from the cage, opened its mouth as if it might meow, but of course no sound came from its mostly skeletal frame. It nosed about, even responded to a scratch behind the hole an ear would be.

He shrugged and set the cage on a shelf. He opened the pantry door and the cat wandered out. For all intents and purposes, it acted precisely like any normal cat. It found a warm place and laid down, and even played with a piece of string. When it ate it, Aestith disentangled the string from its ribcage, but at least it wouldn’t die from ingesting it, he supposed. He made a mental note to buy the creature some cat toys.

Now that he thought about purchases, he should check in at the brothel; the insurance claim was bound to have paid by now. He made some candy first--the cat sat on his lap for some of it.

He found a pet store in the Trade District and bought a few cat toys. The merchant, perhaps just trying to fill an awkward void of silence, said, “What’s the cat’s name?”

Aestith blinked. “It’s…” He hadn’t even thought about naming it. “I had not given it much thought as of yet. I suppose I will have to observe it further.”

The firbolg counted out Aestith’s change. “No need to rush it. Important decision, naming a pet. You’ll have to call it that all its life.”

And the zombie cat was likely to outlive Aestith. The drow nodded and took the offered paper bag of his purchases. “Of course.”

“A kitten then?”

“Ah, no. I adopted a stray.”

“Well, good for you.”

He nodded once and stole out of the store. He dropped the toys into his satchel and went back to the townhouse. The cat, amusingly, did in fact play with the toys. It stalked them around and batted them about, chased, and mostly slept. In many ways, it was better than a normal cat, because Aestith didn’t have to feed it or change its litter box.

In the morning, he left for the Traveler’s Club, mostly because he was hungry.

Kairon greeted him with a grunt and said, “You missed the health inspector.”

“What?”

He rolled his eyes. “A while ago, you and I hired a lawyer, for our lawsuit against the slander at the Gazette. We had a health inspector come by.”

“How’d we do?”

“We don’t have the results back yet, but there was a stack of paperwork about as thick as my mattress. You’re welcome.”

“It is to your benefit as well.” He marched into the kitchen. Kairon had, as usual, just made a large plate of bacon with no sides. There was no bread, and Aestith hadn’t been home to make dough. He made a face and baked sugarless scones again instead.

The brothel had apparently made some money while they were away, and he was actually starting to feel more optimistic about it. If only Tim hadn’t gone and jeopardized the whole thing.

The half-elf took some of the bacon Kairon had made and sat down. He said, “I think this whole thing with the Jewelbox is going to blow over.”

Aestith raised one eyebrow. “Did Eilora not tell you?”

He paused with the bacon halfway to his mouth. “Tell me what?”

The drow smirked. “There was a goliath and a minotaur from the Jewelbox looking for you.”

“Well, before I left, I gave the innkeep ten gold to give to them. That’ll be enough for the window, right?”  
Aestith stared blankly at him, then he sighed and inspected the bake. After breakfast, he finally checked the mail. There was something delivered to him, and he was grateful that it was Richard who found it instead of his cohorts, because Richard was professional, and they were not; it had been slipped under his door.

It was from the auction house, saying that he could come collect the money in person, or it would be sent to him directly if he did not respond or affirmed that this is what he wished. He took a carriage to go collect the sum.

There had been some clean up after the last time, and the auctioneer was glad to see him, though also sheepish about the carriage getting ransacked.

“Do you suppose it was someone looking for that jewel?”

She sighed and shook her head. “At this point, the sooner I’m rid of it, the better.”

“You still have it?”

She made a face. “Arranging the auction has been difficult. I don’t want to attract a similar crowd as last time, so I will have to beef up security.”

The jewel held no trace of magic to it. It was just a pretty stone, really, and it didn’t fit Aestith’s aesthetic in any way. He tilted his head. “I’d take the stone, instead of the gold.”

She considered. “I’d make more at auction, frankly, but after last time, I’m not so certain it would be worth the hassle. If you’d like it, take it.”

Aestith made some comment that he was certain the guard would turn up the stolen armor sooner or later, and she nodded in unconvinced assertion. He signed a bit of paperwork and she handed over Poseidon’s Tear. He accepted graciously, and called a carriage back to the Traveler’s Club.

Xaiviryn had advised him to use some of the gold he had given as a lump sum for the temple to bribe his cohorts into leaving Xaiviryn’s Waterdeep affairs be, and to leave Aestith be.

He went to Deekin first and handed him the money with the brief explanation that it was to stay out of drow business. He did the same with Tim and Eilora. Tim was highly suspicious of it and immediately left to have it inspected by a blacksmith. Eilora took it at face-value and was thrilled to accept money to  _ not _ kill someone. Kairon took the money and left as if he had a specific task in mind. Aestith almost forgot Dee and Tirowan, then gave them a much smaller bribe.

He occasionally dropped hints to the others that they should go back to Skullport. Tim at first was just as reluctant as anyone, but when reminded of the Jewelbox and Grezelda, he started packing and insisting they should head on an adventure to the Underdark. Eilora was understandably reluctant and besides staving off boredom, which she thought of as some kind of silent killer, saw little reason in going beyond possible monetary reward. Dee had no reason to want to go, until Kairon returned to the brothel one evening. He was late for opening, which wasn’t too unusual considering that he had said he was doing some work for the guard.

Eilora was at the bar flirting with Rhyder. Tim stood at his podium. Aestith was outside smoking a cigarette and Dee was milling about somewhere inside. Kairon walked past Aestith, but kept the door open. “Board meeting. Now,” he declared.

Tim raised a day planner. “That’s not in the agenda for this evening,” he said.

The tiefling side-eyed the warlock as he passed. He hurried up the stairs. Eilora looked at Dee and the two whispered briefly, gave an exchange of shrugs. They followed Kairon. Aestith put out his cigarette and went with them. With great reluctance, Tim and Deekin brought up the rear.

On the third floor of the brothel, with the door locked behind them, Kairon started to speak, eyed the door to the lower floor and shook his head. He turned and headed up the next flight of stairs. There was a chorus of sighs and some complaining, but the others followed him into the empty storage room. When they were gathered and the doors were all locked, he finally turned toward them.

He stared at Dee in the dim glow of her dancing lights. “Do you remember those people we murdered for breaking a window.” He glanced meaningfully at Tim.

Tim squirmed. Dee grimaced. She said, “Yes. We cut out their tongues so they couldn’t speak.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. His hand fell to his side. “Well, the guards have a lead on the murders.”

They looked at one another in the ensuing silence. Deekin’s custom bagpipe deflated slowly in his hands. Eilora whispered, “Shit.”

Tim shook his head. “But how? We cut out their tongues. We turned one into a zombie.” He gestured at Aestith.

“What’s the lead?” Aestith asked.

He shook his head. “I didn’t get to read the file. I just heard them talking.”

“Did someone see us?” Dee said.

The surface was complicated. In Aestith’s understanding of crime, they had no witnesses. Why was this still being pursued? 

Eilora glanced at Aestith. “You sure it wasn’t about the kid Aestith murdered?”  
Aestith stared at her flatly. “What kid? Why do you just assume it was me?”

“Who else in this city would sacrifice a child to Lolth?”

Aestith crossed his arms. “How do you know they weren’t trying to frame drow?”

She laughed and glanced at Kairon. “Hey, you want to try Zone of Truth on Aestith?”

Aestith smoldered. “Fuck off.”

She nodded and glanced at the others. “Yeah, she totally murdered a child.”

The others nodded in assent; this was clearly not news to them. Aestith rolled his eyes. The kid was as good as dead anyway. Left alive, he would have infected more people and killed others. Turned into the guard, he would just be slain anyway. At least this way, his death held some value. He said, “With the guard’s investigations underway, it might be in our best interest to leave town for a time.”

Tim nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, I agree.”

Dee smirked. “Especially with all the child murder.”

“Wasn’t there a rumor about some hidden temple across the sea?” Deekin said.

Aestith scowled. “Skullport is an easy walk through the catacombs. We could be there in hours, then we could simply continue through the caverns if we so desire.”

“What’s this temple?” Eilora said.

Deekin described the journey there, which would take weeks on a ship, then a long trek through the jungle in some direction they were uncertain of, possible cannibal lizards. The others made a face. Tim said, “But we’ve been to Skullport before.”

“And if we decide we can go back home, we can just teleport back out,” Deekin said thoughtfully.

Dee pointed out, “We’d have to book passage on a ship if we went to the temple.”

“Aestith, didn’t you mention meeting your sisters in Skullport some time back?”

“Yes.” He had contacted them again last night, but they were taking their time and Amalette had not given much indication that they had even left. “We would have to wait for a few bells though.”

“What?” Dee said.

Aestith blinked. “Sorry, days are a useless time measurement in the Underdark. Where I’m from, it is measured against the city water clock, which chimes a bell in its equivalent of a day.”

“Well, why can’t we just stay here for a while then, then we go?” Tim said.

Kairon sighed. “Tim, what about the guard is onto us don’t you understand?”

The half-elf stared at Kairon blankly. “I’m sure everything will turn out fine.”

Aestith sighed. “Kairon, do you have any idea what sort of guards would be open to bribery?”  
He thought about it, then shook his head. “No. I mostly keep things work-related.”

He sighed. “I’ll see what I can do then. Should we prepare to leave tomorrow?”  
Eilora tilted her head. “If you’re just going to bribe the guard anyway, won’t we be fine to stay here?”

Deekin made a face. “I could try to bribe the guard. I’m good at that sort of thing.”

Aestith’s stomach twisted, but he couldn’t think of a good reason to prevent Deekin from doing it. He said, “There’s still a necromancer in Waterdeep that would probably very much like us dead.”

“What?” Dee said.

Aestith sighed. “The bloodmoss, the possessed scythe, interfering with whatever he was doing to Sylvia, freeing the captives in the catacombs.”

They looked at one another.

“The guards are only one of our many concerns.”

“He doesn’t know who we are though,” Tim said.

“We aren’t an unrecognizable group, that he has had plenty of opportunities to see.” Aestith shrugged. “But we could try to bribe the guard first. Let us know how that goes, Deekin.”

The dragonborn seemed suddenly uneasy, then brightened with optimism. He returned a few hours later, still cheerful, but somehow muted. He commented that it was surprisingly difficult to find a corrupt guard. Aestith nodded, not at all surprised.

They planned to leave the following morning, after some final preparations and supplies were gathered. Aestith sent another message to Amalette. She only replied that it would be a while.

Aestith sat at the bar scribbling a list of supplies they would need. Eilora hung her head and muttered something about how she shouldn’t have left the forest and that it was a mistake to leave the badgers.

Aestith frowned. “Pardon me? Is that some kind of strange wood elf expression? Leave the badgers?”

She made a face. “No.” She stared at her cup. “I meant that I lived with Cakecake and his family for a long time. I basically grew up with them.”

Aestith blinked slowly. “That explains everything.” He let his palm fall flat on the table. “May I inquire as to  _ why _ you were raised by wild badgers?”

She scowled. “Well, my clan were all murdered when I was a kid.”

“Do you know what killed them?”

She shook her head miserably. “No. They were all dead when I got there.”

“You didn’t inspect the bodies for signs of animal attacks or raiders or something?”

She stared at Aestith in horror. “I was a kid!”

He frowned. “So? I saw my first dead body when I was about five. And my mother’s corpse when I was eight. That was hardly traumatizing.”

She gawked. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Her eyes roved over his grey skin, the pale hair. “Never mind.”

“All I mean to say is that if you were to observe the wounds, you might have learned something of this attack that killed your clan.”

“Shut up, Aestith.”

He snorted. “Raised by badgers indeed.” He went back to his list.

Eilora ordered another drink, then another. Some time later, she smiled lazily at Rhyder. “Hey, you’re cute,” she told him. “You want to go to my room?”

Rhyder feigned offense. “Sleeping with my boss? That would be unprofessional!” He tossed the towel he was drying a cup with onto the counter and grinned. “Fortunately for you, I’m unprofessional!” He left his post and took a stumbling Eilora up the stairs.

Aestith chuckled and reread his list again before he went to his own room. Arcedi was waiting for him. More accurately, the other was reading the titles on Aestith’s bookshelves. Arcedi glanced at Aestith. He said, in Undercommon, “Do you just find the absolute worst shit you can and buy it?”

“Yes,” he said blandly. He tossed the note on the writing desk and checked that the door was locked. “Haven’t you seen you in a while.”

“Yeah, well. You were gone, and then I was busy.” He shrugged and stepped toward Aestith. “So. I had thought you might stay in Neverwinter.”

He shook his head. “No. My temple will be here.”

“Right, that.” He seemed somehow relieved though. “Zelvier wasn’t enough for you?”  
Aestith laughed, and brought Arcedi to bed. He wouldn’t be seeing him for some time, and wanted to remind Arcedi that he still valued his presence.

The cleric explained the circumstances under their departure, with some inflection on the urgency. Arcedi tilted his head, understanding flooding his eyes. He smiled. “And I suppose if I take care of this task for you, what would you give me?”

Aestith’s lips quirked in a smirk. “Would you prefer a blowjob, or money?”

Both of them laughed, and Arcedi said, “I’m good at that sort of thing. We’ll see how complicated it is.”

He asked Arcedi to to look after the fae too. “And please feed my cat,” Aestith added with the faintest of smirks.

Arcedi laughed. “Right. I’ll feed it, then clean up the food when it falls out of its throatless neck. Did you ever name that thing?”

“Hallow,” Aestith said.

“You have a weird sense of humor.”

“Have you ever reflected on your own life?”

Arcedi lifted the window. “See you when you get back, lovey.” He climbed down. Aestith bathed and packed for the afternoon’s expedition. He hesitated and stuffed the priestess clothing into his bag, trembling even as he did. He went to the Trades Ward for some basic supplies and necessities, then to see Adam. He handed him some more candy, and asked him to keep an eye out for guards that might be open to bribery, and for their routes near Aestith’s townhouse.

Aestith dropped by his townhouse on the way back. The glyphs were still in place and Arcedi knew not to go into the lab. The one in front of the pantry, where the fae was hidden, was intact, and Arcedi knew the password for that one. The one by the front door was fine too. Everything was as he left it. He checked that all the windows were locked and secure, all the doors were locked, and left.

The others in the Traveler’s Club were still getting ready. Tirowan, to everyone’s surprise, was inclined to go back with them to Skullport. Aestith looked over his map a final time and they took a somewhat cramped wagon to the City of the Dead.

There was a guard, of course, who told them it was closed because of the undead still wandering around. Kairon assured him that they could take care of themselves and were there for exactly that sort of thing anyway.

The guard looked at the mismatched band dubiously. Tirowan batted her lashes at him and he seemed more awkward for it, but he unlocked the gate and let them pass.


	28. Monsters

They had not anticipated much resistance in the catacombs beyond the occasional zombie, though the guard should have been a clue. The undead were certainly prevalent in the upper levels, but as they climbed lower, things had changed. An ironbound door sat between them and the only way they knew. They could bypass the door and try different passageways, but getting lost was generally unappealing, and they didn’t know that any other way would open to it. Once past the door, it was only an hour’s walk to Skullport.

“We could try the Yawning Portal,” Eilora said slowly.

Aestith made a face. “Yeah, because I’m sure that’s a lot safer than a doorway.”

Deekin peered around the corner. “Maybe we should try the door?”

Tim shrugged and sent Impy, invisible. It was unable to open it, even with Dee’s mage hand to assist. They confirmed that it was locked.

Kairon shrugged. “We could break it.”

Dee’s hand strayed near her lockpicking set. “Or unlock it.”

“We could knock,” Aestith said. It was such a novel idea that no one else had even considered it.

Tim strode confidently forward. He knocked politely on the door. A small peephole opened.

Tim said, “Hello, friend.”

The person on the other side said, “Hello…”

Tim beamed. “My name is Mitch. What’s yours?”

The other person did not answer.

The half-elf continued undaunted, “This is a nice door. New, is it?”

“Yes.”

A pause. Then, “So, do you mind opening it?”

“I mind.”

“Could you let us in please? We just want to pass through, if you don’t mind.”

A short, confused pause. “Absolutely not. Why would we do that?”

“We…” Tim fumbled.

Deekin bounded forward. “We’re entertainers! Cheese inspectors! Here to inspect cheese and entertain. We can even entertain your cheese. Cheese is best eaten when properly entertained, and it also tastes its best when you are entertained.” 

Aestith slapped his face with his palm.

“Wait here.” The peephole shut.

Deekin and Tim turned around and trotted back to them. Tim said, “I think they’re opening it for us.”

Kairon stared at them flatly. “They’re opening it to come out and kill us.”

“I’m sure my new friend wouldn’t do that.”

Aestith groaned. “We can move back a bit and set up our own ambush. They don’t know how many of us are here.”

Dee glanced at the door. “I could probably get it open. We could just rush through.”  
“We don’t know what’s on the other side of the door,” Eilora pointed out.

“Whatever we plan to do, we must act quickly, because we are running out of time,” Tirowan hissed.

“Let’s just find another way. I’m sure another corridor connects to the one past this one.”

“They could be blocked too,” Deekin said.

Tim said, “We—”

The door opened. The air, formerly cool, dropped to freezing. Ice frosted the walls. Hail pounded down on them, bouncing off armor and striking against skin. The cold seeped into them. As the storm abated, Eilora raised a hand and tiny spikes formed on the ground between them and the advancing party. Cakecake snarled at her feet. Tim whispered an incantation. A fireball spilled over the attacking group. Kairon pushed his way to the front, stopped just before the spike growth, and grabbed a scroll. Another fireball pelted the attackers. Tirowan raised a hand and a third fireball rained down on them.

Tim’s imp squealed in glee. The enemy fired shots at Kairon and Eilora. The arrows bounced off of Kairon’s plate and shield and Eilora dodged out of the way. Her dodge seemed to take her directly into the enemy’s second wizard’s spell. The acid arrow struck her in the side and she gasped in pain.

Aestith tried to spread out as much as they could in the corridor, but couldn’t advance to melee with the spike growth. He used distance spells, but had nothing that would hit more than one person as of yet, so he went for the wizards. A bolt of light struck one and it fell. Eilora took out the other one.

One of their archers put a horn to his lips. Aestith tried to cast, to stop him. Too slow. The horn blew, high and shrill--the sort of thing that no one would miss. Dee killed him, but too late.

“Run,” Aestith suggested.

Eilora waved a hand dismissively and the spikes disappeared. They ran down the corridor. Even Dee didn’t stop to loot the bodies. As Aestith rushed past, he noticed the patches on their clothing with a sinking feeling in his gut.

They dashed down the path, Eilora in the lead with Kairon behind her. Aestith went last. All of them running, especially Kairon, were not quiet. He chanced a glance behind and saw a dwarf in full plate, against all odds, gaining on them. He stopped, the riding dress spinning around his ankles. He raised a hand and the stone walls closed together. He had bought them an hour.

He turned and fled after the others. Eilora had ran head-first into one fire trap, and another poison trap. Kairon picked her up when she fell and cleared her of poison, then they kept going. Aestith, Deekin, and Kairon stopped briefly to heal the worst of the wounds as they caught their breath, then hurried on to the door.

The passages they went by seemed either barren, or as of yet unalerted; they passed without further hindrance. The secret entrance opened at their touch. They had to move garbage and boxes out of the way, then closed and locked the entrance again. To keep it from looking too obvious that they had come this way, they moved the garbage and boxes back.

“How are we getting back into the pub?” Kairon said.

Dee suggested, “I could sneak in?”

Tirowan rolled her eyes. “You might recall that the trapdoor opens directly behind the bar of the pub.”

Tim grimaced. “Well, I can go up first and talk to them. I can disguise myself.”

Eilora blinked. “We didn’t hide ourselves last time.”

“Last time, there wasn’t a guild of pissed off thieves who will be looking for us,” Aestith muttered.

“What?”

Aestith sighed. “The Tarsqueakers are a thieves guild faction from the Southward. They’ve been a bit of a problem recently.”

Eilora paled. “Oh, I thought they were just lycanthropes.”

The cleric spun his head toward her. “What?”

She nodded. “Yeah, they were healing a bit after each hit. Lycanthropes do that.”

_ Tarsqueakers _ .  _ Wererats in the Southward. _ They were the ones infecting the kids, probably to recruit. If he had helped the Piece with the Tarsqueakers when they first issued their complaints about them, they probably would not be in such a mess now. “Shit.”

“Good thing we didn’t melee,” Kairon muttered, who was immune to disease.

Deekin lifted his head. “I’ll go in first. I can whoo the patrons and cause a distraction for everyone else.”

Aestith stared at him flatly, then glanced meaningfully at Kairon. “No one is hiding Kairon.”

Deekin considered this. “Well, I know what to do then.” He explained his plan briefly. Aestith laughed and ushered him forward, touching him with Guidance to succeed.

Deekin shoved aside the trapdoor, bagpipes ready. Aestith cringed. Deekin grinned and inflated them in preparation, then began the ascent. He lifted the trapdoor with a heave and it creaked backwards. The bagpipes wheezed and screeched. Deekin danced from the hole, swaying from side to side. Dee scrambled up next and ducked into the bar. Tirowan pirouetted out of the trapdoor and fell in behind Deekin. Tim followed. Kairon came up next and Eilora passed him Cakecake. The wood elf moved aside. Aestith groaned and climbed up the ladder. He shut the door, pulling his hood over his face, but the sight was too comical not to laugh.

The others had formed a conga line, without Dee, and were slowly dancing their way toward the door. Impy had a hold of Kairon’s horns and was doing his own dance. Aestith giggled and ran to the back, stepping over a dancing Cakecake.

The bar, aside from Deekin,the sound of shuffling feet, and Kairon’s noisy adamantine armor, was entirely silent. The expressions of shocked disbelief on the bar patrons’ faces was one Aestith would treasure.

Once they were outside and the door was safely shut, Deekin finished his song with a splurt. “Now what?”

Aestith glanced upwards, at the spider on the cavern ceiling. “We should find shelter for the moment.”

Eilora shook her head. “The only inn we found last time was that place.” She inclined her head toward the bar they had come from.

Dee sighed. “Most people seem to squat in an abandoned building.”

“It shouldn’t be that hard to find one,” Kairon sighed, as if resigning himself.

Tirowan seemed to be fighting some internal urge, then her shoulders slumped in self-defeat. “We should speak to Olvera at the Feathered Rat.”

“Why?”  
“She… might know somewhere we could shelter.” Tirowan strutted ahead and led them to the shop. The windowless shop was stuffed with cages, animals, tanks. An aviary held bats. A half-elf, that must be Olvera, seemed to be feeding them. A heavy iron bell tolled as the door opened. 

The half-elf glanced briefly at them, then turned to her task. “Looking for a pet?”

Eilora scratched a cat behind the ears. “Oh, maybe.”

Aestith frowned and commented, “I had a pet bat once. My mother made me smash it with a hammer.”

Dee stared. “What the fuck, Aestith?”

He elaborated, “I spent hours training it, and my mother thought I was too attached to it, so she made me smash it with a hammer. A pointless activity that ultimately proved nothing, except that training it was a waste of my time.”

Tim stared, aghast. “And you listened to her?”

“Why would I not?”  
Kairon pinched the bridge of his nose. “You couldn’t just release the bat?”

“Is it a custom, where you are from, to not obey your mothers?”

Olvera paused, slowly turned to look at Aestith, then looked over the group again. She seemed to relax slightly when she saw Tirowan. “Does anyone  _ else _ want a pet?”

Eilora picked up the cat. “How much are the cats?”

Olvera seemed grateful for the distraction. She locked the bat cage and went to discuss the cats with Eilora. Aestith paced about the room. A harp behind the counter radiated magic. Aestith leaned toward Dee. He whispered, “The harp is magical.”

The halfling considered, her fingers itching to take it. Olvera sidestepped around the counter, picked up something, put it down. She picked up the harp on its strap and slipped it over her shoulders. Dee said, “Do you play? I’m a bit of a musician myself. Would you mind if I tried it?” Dee hated music, ironic considering her full name was Rhapsody.

“I would,” she said. Her grip on the strap made her knuckles white.

Tirowan stepped forward, shooting Aestith and Dee a glare. She smiled at Olvera. “Olvera darling, we need a place to stay while we’re in town for a few days.”

“I thought you wouldn’t be coming back to Skullport, Tirowan,” Olvera admitted.

Tirowan nodded and heaved a stressed sigh designed to make her bosom heave. “One must attend to one’s friends, dear.” The phrase seemed to mean more than what was said.

Olvera nodded. She looked at the others, particularly at Aestith. Kairon, ever blunt, said, “Look, do you know anywhere we can stay for the night?”

“The Guts and Garters,” Olvera offered. “Or you could find an abandoned building. That’s what most people do.”

Tim smiled wanly. “We were hoping for somewhere more secure, with friends.”

Olvera’s grip on the strap relaxed, but only slightly. Her eyes slid toward Tirowan, but settled again on Aestith. Tirowan sidestepped between the half-elf and the drow. “Olvera darling, we don’t mean you any trouble.”

Aestith said, quietly, “We should not press our fortune here. I’m sure we could find somewhere else.”

Dee looked at Olvera mournfully, as pathetic as she could make herself appear. Deekin took a breath and inflated his bagpipe, prepared to sing her an impromptu plea for help. Before he could quite squeeze out the first note, Olvera said, “Very well. Tirowan, would you take them to the fortress?”

Tirowan nodded, pleased. “Thank you, my dear.”

Before they left, Eilora picked out two cats. She begged the others to help her carry more cats, insistent that she had to get them away from the Underdark where they would be safe. 

“No, I don’t want the the brothel to smell like cat piss,” Aestith insisted when she asked him to take a cat.

“They’ll stay in my room.”

“You want ten cats in your room?” he demanded. “That is absolutely disgusting. No. They’ll smell.”

She looked pleadingly at Deekin. He sighed. “I can prestidigitation the smell away, I suppose…”

She brightened. “See?”

He crossed his arms. “That doesn’t stop them from clawing up the furniture and shedding hair everywhere.”

She looked at the cats. “But if we leave them in Skullport, they’ll die.”

Aestith, ever an optimist, pointed out, “They’ll die if they aren’t here too.”

To stop her complaining, Kairon took two. Tim took the orange tabby. Eilora paid for them.

Tirowan led them to the fortress. Eilora, Kairon, and Deekin moved some of the debri aside and heaved to shove the door open. Kairon marched through first and the others filed after. Bones rattled. Lights flashed and candles flickered. Two poltergeists howled and screamed as they dove at the paladin.

The tiefling stared impassively at them. The image faded. Kairon snorted and went to close the door. Tirowan said, “Felrax, it’s me. Surely you couldn’t forget me so soon?”

A door opened and a dragonborn stumbled out. “Tirowan! What did you think? Was it scary? Should I rattle more bones next time? I have some chains too. I could do more chains.”

She sighed. “It was lovely, darling.” She gestured to the others. “We have some guests for the next few days.”

Felrax looked them over briefly. “Of course, of course. I trust your judgement. Help me move those boxes back in place.” They shifted the boxes about. Felrax gave them a short tour of the main areas they stayed. The dragonborn was a wizard of some talent, despite the light show and poor effects he kept up to make the fortress appear haunted. Aestith used Thaumaturgy to enhance the effects.

Felrax waved at a shelf he called his “library” with a measure of pride, and a beaker of disappointment. Aestith plucked a book from the shelf when he noticed the cover was in Undercommon. He thumbed through it and scanned the pages. A diary? What idiot drow would keep such a thing? He stuffed it under one arm. “Do you mind if I borrow this?”

“Oh, not at all. Can’t read it, you see. Nice handwriting though. They drew a few pictures in the margins.”

Aestith made a face. He tucked a hand under the riding dress and removed from his satchel his own books. He offered them to Felrax. “You can borrow these. They’re… garbage romance books, but—”

“Oh, yes! Anything new to read is always appreciated!” He reached for the stack greedily. Aestith’s eyebrows rose in alarm and he yanked the drow pornographic novel back. “Not this one.”

Felrax seemed disappointed, but still delighted to have a few more things to read. Aestith found the makeshift kitchen and went about making a stew. He had some supplies from the surface that weren’t likely to keep, so he used those while the others let the cats prowl about and discussed their current situation. Tim had an in-depth discussion with his maniacal imp, who seemed increasingly frustrated that it couldn’t kill Eilora’s cats. While Aestith did not speak a word of Infernal, it wasn’t necessary, between the wild gesturing, and the hungry way the imp stared at the felines. After dinner, Aestith contacted Amalette with Sending.

_ I have arrived in Skullport. _

Her reply was delayed, but not remarkably so.  _ Three bells in the Flagon and the Dragon. _

His hands trembled and he shook as he combed his hair. Only meditating on Lolth granted him any sense of calm, if not tranquility.

They rested there. When they were more apt, Aestith approached Tim with a smirk. The cleric really needed to vent some kind of sadism. He said, “Tim, you seem to like strange pets, correct?”

Tim grinned. Handsy peeked out from Tim’s robe. Tim had purchased it armor at some point. “Yeah, I do.”

Aestith nodded. “Of course. There’s someone here you should meet.”

Perhaps out of curiosity, some of the others came with them. Eiranish had described this place, but Aestith had opted not to go himself. As they traveled toward it, he was suddenly glad he had not bothered. The flies thickened the air with their buzzing, flitting from bloated corpse to corpse, each in various states of decay and piled high on each side of the building. Most were waterlogged. A few were twitching with nothing resembling life. A stitched together body with five limbs, none of them matching, squirmed against the wall of the building. It had been nailed there like a business sign. A tattered curtain served as a door.

Tim strode inside and Aestith followed. Aestith stayed near the door. A sea hag looked up from her work. The struggling body on the wooden table jerked as she jabbed a sharp bone needle into its flesh. Tim pointed, “I like what you’re doing with it.”

“Ah, a connoisseur,” she purred. It was the sound of gravel. “I’m glad you approve.” She made a final stitch and pulled back the thick thread. She leaned down and cut it with her twisted, yellowed teeth. 

Tim smiled. “Hi, I’m Tim.”

The sea hag hunched over her table. “Olive.” Her long, stringy hair clung to her gaunt flesh.

Tim’s smile did not falter, to his credit. “You have such nice skin for being down here.”

She lumbered from behind the table. The slanted ceiling had long-since given her a permanent hunch. “The secret is the oil.”

“Ah. I’ve been growing more interested in skin care myself.”

Aestith rolled his eyes. Olive selected a jar from a shelf. She observed the contents briefly, then opened the jar. She dumped the thick fluid onto the floor. “Let me give you some oil.” She reached to her thick mass of stringy hair and squeezed until the small jar filled. She tightened the lid and handed Tim the jar. 

He beamed graciously as he accepted the jar of Olive’s oil. “That’s lovely. Thank you.” He looked around. The odd skeleton or zombie bumped against a wall. A few others, in the back of the room, attempted to walk, but she had hung them from the ceiling with a rope. “I am interested in procuring a pet.”

She waved a hand and turned back to her work. “Bah! Feathered Rat is up there.” She mumbled something to herself about a lack of customers.

Tim stepped toward her. “No, I mean. I want a zombie.”

Olive slowly turned toward him. “Why didn’t you speak up sooner? What did you have in mind?” She gestured to her currently available wares.

Tim nodded vaguely. “Well, I was thinking of something… more interesting than these.”

Olive perked up. “How many heads?”

“Three?” he suggested. “And… I think six--no, eight arms. Got any gnomes?”

“I’ll look. Legs?”

“No. Two torsos.”

She nodded. “Say no more.” She lurched toward the lower shelves and picked up a large jar. She set it down and turned it to face Tim. The dead eyes of a human stared out from the thick formaldehyde. “He was a captain. He wasn’t very good at it.” She picked up another jar, this one with a half-orc head. “He was the first mate.” She gave a critical eye to the other jarred heads, then selected a half-elf. “I didn’t like the way he was looking at me. And he talked too much.” Olive had stitched the half-elf’s eyes shut. The lips were sewn closed. By Olive’s grin, this last part might have been a joke.

“That’s perfect,” Tim said. He reached for his coin purse. “What do I owe you?”

Olive selected a box from another shelf and place it beside the heads. It opened with an oxidized key. The hinges creaked. She removed a large oxidized syringe from the kit and carefully inserted an equally rusted needle at least as long as the syringe. The tip was uncomfortably thick. Olive shrugged one creaking shoulder. “Two vials of blood and six hairs.”

Tim looked at the needle. A flicker of doubt passed over his features, then he smiled, bright and optimistic. “Sure.”

Aestith said, “What do you do with the blood?”

Olive leered at Aestith. “Give me a vial of blood and I’ll show you.” She licked the tip of the needle.

The drow shook his head. “No thank you.”

Tim said, “I’ll do it.”

Olive nodded. “Sit down.” She gestured toward a chair that Aestith would have expected to find in the average torture chamber--a device with straps to keep the victim still.

Tim eyed it critically. “I’m all right.”

Olive shook her head. “No. They tend to squirm.”

With some reluctance, Tim sat down. Olive strapped him securely into the chair and picked up the syringe. She jammed it suddenly into Tim’s exposed neck. Tim screamed. Aestith laughed and parted the curtain. He said, “You guys are missing this.”

“What are you doing to Tim?” Dee demanded.

He beckoned toward them, then looked back at the slowly filling syringe. Eilora peeked her head inside, blanched, and ducked back out. When Olive filled the syringe, she removed it, opened the vial and poured the liquid down her throat. She refitted it and jammed the syringe back into Tim’s neck a second time. She drank the second as well, and the third. She replaced the syringe and the needle in their case without cleaning it. She went back to Tim and delicately selected each strand of hair before she plucked it out by its root. She wound the long hairs around her bony fingers before she released Tim.

Tim slid from the chair. Olive unstrapped the twitching zombie on the table and dumped it onto the floor. She moved about the room, inspecting body parts, hacking some, picking others. She slapped a torso onto the table with a meaty thunk. She went to the table and removed the captain’s head from the jar by its hair. She tossed it beside the torso and picked the other two heads. She sewed them onto the torso at what she likely imagined were jaunty angles. Tim, by this time, had recovered enough to stumble to his feet, leaning for support against the chair. He held a hand to his bleeding neck. Olive leaned over the three heads and pried open the captain’s mouth. Like a mother feeding its young, blood and spit and perhaps something else sluiced from Olive’s mouth down the dead throat of the captain. The liquid spilled on its sunken cheeks and seemed to seep into the pores. She did it a second time and one of the heads lolled. A jaw worked. Eyes twitched and rolled in their sockets.

“Come back in a couple hours,” Olive instructed.

Tim stumbled from the shop, gasping. Aestith, snickering, followed. Tim looked desperately at Aestith and Kairon. “Can anyone heal me?”

Kairon stared flatly at him. “You did this to yourself.”

Deekin sighed and paraded Tim past the corpses, where the smell was not quite as foul and the flies not as thick. He sang a cacophonous melody that would have woken the dead, were they not already awake; it healed Tim well enough.

“Anyone else want lunch?” Kairon said.

Eilora had been holding a handkerchief to her mouth as long as they had been near the bodies. “How can you think about lunch?”

He shrugged. “Maybe a drink?”

“I could use a drink,” Dee said.

The Worm’s Gullet was the only true restaurant in Skullport, boasting its existence in the desiccated husk of a worm and waited entirely by kobolds in ill-fitting suits. Deekin was overjoyed, bantering with the help and suggesting they play some traditional kobold songs. This was met with a chorus of groans from the table and something like hope and happiness flitted briefly by the tiny kobold’s face.

The small creatures passed out menus and one came by to take their orders and deliver water. They did not have a cheese plate.

After they had ordered, a group of kobolds carrying instruments moved onto the small stage. Deekin beamed and readied his bagpipes. The song was probably well-played and Deekin’s performance was as good as it had ever been; his energy and joy were communicated in the screeching of the bagpipes. Tirowan was fortunate to have missed it.

The other patrons had a range of reactions to the song from irritated to amused. Aestith bordered between the two. If he hadn’t known Deekin, it would at least be funny, instead of something nearing embarrassment.

Deekin tipped the band and they beamed and scraped before him, nearly in tears. Tim also tipped them. Kairon drained his wine glass.

The food arrived in short order. The souffle caused a curious numbness to the tongue and lips that Aestith found unpleasant enough to only pick at it. Kairon seemed pleased with the odd meatloaf he had and Tim seemed well enough in his stew and pie. Eilora took a single bite of the souffle and gave the rest to Cakecake. Dee finished her pie and Deekin was more interested in trying to speak to the busy kobolds than eat.

The door to the kitchens opened as the waiters were clearing the plates and delivering the bill. A duergar chef, fat with his own cooking, came toward them and stopped at their table. One of the waiters cowered. “How was the meal?” the duergar asked.

“Wonderful,” Deekin said. “The ambiance was great, the help was excellent, and the entertainment was amazing.”

The dwarf gave the kobold a critical stare. “We don’t entertain here.” As the kobold tried to skate around him, he smacked it.

Deekin’s jaw dropped and some of the joy on his face faded as it finally occurred to him that the kobolds were slaves. “Oh, don’t hit them.”

The duergar smacked the kobold again. “Gotta keep them in line so they remember their place.” He looked at the group. “I’m glad you enjoyed your meal. Do you have any questions?”

Kairon had a few questions about the menu, and after he spoke up, the others asked too. The meats were procured from various Underdark creatures, of course, and the souffle was more of a meat-based pudding than a souffle; it was made from a floomph.

As the duergar left, Deekin handed the kobold waiter another gold. The kobold’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you.”

The duergar seemed to notice and smacked the kobold again as the creature passed. The chef took the gold from it. Deekin shifted uncomfortably, then gave the kobold another gold as they left, even knowing it would probably be taken away.

Deekin looked back at the Worm over his shoulder. “We should help them.”

Aestith glanced at the Green Skulls. “Great idea,” he muttered. “I’d prefer not to die.”

Deekin sighed, but seemed to agree that things probably would not go well if they did. Tim, feeling remarkably better after a meal and probably had drunk too much, led the way back to Olive’s. Dee stole one of his liquor bottles, for his own well-being.

Tim went into the Dead Man’s Corner alone, and came out leading a creature by a long rope around one of its necks. The three heads only had three eyes between them. The mouth of the one sewn shut seemed to be trying to speak. The half-orc head’s tongue lolled from its mouth.  One torso was sewn to a second torso, like a freakish backwards centaur from which sprouted two arms in the expected place on the upper torso, and six arms on the secondary torso. The arms were a mismatched menagerie from Olive’s collection. One was missing a hand and the stump made a thumping sound every time it stepped. Neither torso were equipped with hips and the second torso was haphazardly sewn shut, as if merely to keep the insides from spilling from the neck hole.

“I named him Captain Skitters,” Tim said proudly.

The others gaped in silent, abject horror. Tirowan had made the wise choice when she chose to stay at the fortress. Kairon’s gaze passed from Skitters to Aestith and he whispered, “This is your fault, Drow.”

Tim stopped by a pawn shop and purchased a battered captain’s hat, which he stuffed on the main head. As they passed through the city, Captain Skitters in tow, any passersby gave them a wide berth.

Eilora muttered, “If I saw that thing in an alley, I’d kill it. And possibly the entire town, just to be safe.”

“So Captain Skitters is ensuring that no one messes with us,” Tim chimed.

Dee raised an eyebrow. “You know how in stories, there’s that group of bad guys creating abominations, killing innocent people, and whatnot? I think we’re them.”

Against all reason, Felrax made no attempt to stop Tim from bringing Captain Skitters into the fortress, which may have had more to do with shocked disbelief than that he didn’t want the monstrosity near the place he slept. Tim posed his pet in front of a window so that it “could get some fresh air”.

The imp fluttered down and landed on Aestith’s shoulder. It whispered, “Kill him.”

Aestith frowned. “What?”

It nodded. “You heard me. Now is your chance. He’s drunk and hurt. Kill him.”

Aestith knocked the creature off of his shoulder and walked away. He stopped beside Kairon and whispered. “Has Tim’s imp been acting weird?”

Kairon shrugged. “More weird than normal, you mean?”

Aestith glanced back, but the creature had gone back to bothering Tim. “It seems to want me to kill Tim.”

The tiefling’s tail twitched. “It climbed up my armor the other day and made a similar request.”

Aestith pursed his lips. “Perhaps it is reconsidering a life of servitude.”

Eilora and Tirowan, unnerved by Captain Skitters, decided to go out. Dee tagged along. Aestith passed them in the hall. Tirowan called, “Aestith darling, did you want to come out with us? Ladies night.” Her smile was confident, because she knew exactly how Aestith would respond before she asked. The gesture made her look accommodating and unprejudiced towards him, and it made him look standoffish.

_ Well played.  _ “No. No thank you.”

“Well, nothing wrong with a quiet rest indoors.” They moved past him to the door.

Aestith arguably belonged better here than he had anywhere on the surface. He belonged here more than he had when he lived with the duergar dwarves. 

But he didn’t belong at all.

#

Skullport was, in essence, confusing. The only reason so many of the factions were not in all out war was the Green Skulls. If not for that, though, it would still confuse Kai. The place was constructed from the ruined husks of wrecked ships. It seemed ready to topple at any moment, and most of the residents seemed to agree that, one bell, it likely would. But, they also agreed that that time was not  _ now. _

Kai had never believed that Sailanshin, perfect and skillful Sailanshin, could possibly be dissatisfied. If even he were unhappy, what chance did Kai have? He just wanted something to hold onto. Something pure that he could believe in, that would give him a reason to keep going. Everything seemed hopeless, everywhere he turned.

He couldn’t compare to Sailanshin, no matter how hard he tried; he always fell pitifully short. If he could only be something more than what he was.

As he passed the streets, watchful, he saw a curious group. He had never actually seen elves, or halflings. They filled him with a sick kind of revulsion, made worse by the halfling’s cantrip she used to make light enough for her eyes to see.

The high elf was a perfect inverse of a drow, white where he would expect dark, and dark where she shouldn’t be. The halfling was like a human child with odd proportions and a foul mouth. A small, furry creature trundled beside them in armor--probably a ranger’s pet. The wood elf was quite different from everything he had ever seen. She wasn’t an inverse of color, nor a perverse mimicry of a human child. She was beautiful in the way that a leutistic bat was beautiful. She wasn’t eerily tall like the other one either, and walked with a surety to her step that came from a lifetime of hardship and rough living.

She was entirely unlike everything he had ever seen or understood. The taboo of her, more than she herself, drew him to her.

They stepped into a bar. He hesitated, and followed them inside. The group found an empty table and borrowed a chair. They sat down and ordered drinks, talking confidently, laughing, discussing. Even that was bizarre. Drow would talk and joke, even gossip and laugh. But there was always a double meaning, always something else going on. You always had to be alert for a veiled threat. The three of them relaxed, or sometimes misspoke and no offense was meant or taken. They were not tense with one another and seemed comfortable. No drow could truly relax in another’s company. Maybe a lover’s, under the right circumstances.

Kai had never known what it was like to relax with someone, not like that. Just to talk to someone as freely as they did.

The wood elf’s name was Eilora.

_ Eilora. _

The “lo” in her name, contained in the center, was bordering on blasphemy. It was bold and as identifying as her green hair.

The high elf went to the bar to order another round of drinks. The halfling tried to get her attention, failed, and scampered after her for something additional. Kai swallowed and rose from his seat. He had to, or he’d lose the opportunity forever.

He thought, for only a moment, of disguising himself, but he didn’t. Why should he, if she didn’t? He stopped in front of her. Slowly, she turned toward him. Her badger, less than subtly, moved between them. Kai said. “I… I want to know you. Who are you?”

Her freckled face contorted in confusion. “What?”

He swallowed. “I… I’m sorry. Common isn’t my first tongue…” He frowned, but even he wouldn’t dream of speaking to her in Elvish. It would admit too much, and give her too much power over him in the conversation. “I meant to say that I think you’re fascinating.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then her eyes slid toward her empty cup, then back at him. “No. No, no, no.” She shook her head adamantly. “You’re a drow, for one thing. You’re evil, and you’ve never done anything good in your life I’ll bet. You’ve probably never even helped someone.”

He frowned quizzically. Out of all the possible outcomes he had considered, this was not one. “I… will consider your words.” He slunk out of the bar, caught somewhere between confused and embarrassed. Something good? Help someone? What did she mean?

Kai puzzled over her words when he returned as if he were trying to decipher a glyph, and he must have looked as confused as he felt. Sailanshin called, “Kai, whatever occupies your thoughts, stop it. We have work to do.”

He groaned and sloughed from the chair. “Of course.” He frowned. “It just seems like a lot of bother to kill a male.”

“You’re the same age. I think you had the same instructor, yes?”

Kai frowned. “I don’t really remember him.”

Sailanshin shrugged. “So long as you do not hesitate when it matters.”

_ Something good. Help someone. _ He nodded. “Of course.” He paused for a moment as he watched his elder brother pour over the map with an opisometer. There were so many places to get lost. His eyes flicked back to Sailanshin’s face. “There are male paladins there.”

Sailanshin’s jaw tightened. “I saw them.”

Kai shifted from one foot to the next. “I mean, you’re an excellent swordsman. You could—”

“Kai. What you are attempting to do right now is the equivalent of trying to teach a lizard to fly,” he snapped.

Kai slunk back. They were limited by their station, and their sex. He whispered, “But dragons fly.”


	29. Dominate

In a few bells, none of Aestith’s hiding would matter anymore; his sisters would recognize him, he imagined, and if he didn’t dress as if he were male, they would know. So why bother to hide? It was logical, even sensible, but it made him more anxious than he had ever been when he had first started wearing women’s clothing.

He didn’t know how, exactly, he would stop hiding though. He liked the makeup and braiding his long hair. He liked the dresses and the heels. He wasn’t about to give those things up. The obvious thing to do would be to, well, stop tucking. It was harder than it should have been. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the obvious bump in his trousers that most of his clothing would showcase and it made him feel strangely more vulnerable than before.

But of course it did; it set him out as mutated and different, rather than female and thus someone to be respected and feared. Or male, where he was to be ignored at best or seen as a threat at worst.

He needed to do this though, and the sooner he did, the less anxious he would be when he met his sisters. What would Amalette say?

Aestith suggested that they visit the alchemist and look over the Flagon and the Dragon, with an off-handed comment that it was where he planned to meet his sisters. Aestith’s own anxiety spurred him to insist on the shopping first.

Tim brought his monstrous pet with them, occasionally mumbling about how he needed a psionicist so that he could link his mind to control Captain Skitters.

The alchemist was an old woman with clouded eyes that, after a few minutes, seemed to disturb Kairon. Tim acted as though he wanted to steal from her, but Aestith subtly made it clear that when things went poorly for him that he would not assist him. Kairon and Eilora reinforced this.

The old woman had one potion that, despite its vast expense, was too valuable for them to collectively pass up, so they divided the price between them. Aestith offered the old woman a vial of his mushroom extract--the only one he had on him. She knew precisely what it was, and it brought the price down a little over Aestith’s sum. The alchemist gave the group the potion when the money was forked over. With shaking hands, she set the small safe down and placed a rusted skeleton key on top of it. The potion was nestled inside on a bed of dried lichen.

“I’ll carry it,” Eilora said quickly. “As the most trustworthy one here.”

Kairon snorted. “I’m the least likely to fall in combat.”

Aestith stared blankly at both of them. “I have a satchel of holding. And that’s heavy.”

After a short period of time bickering, they agreed to give Kairon the key and Aestith the safe. The alchemist had a few other potions and poisons of various sorts. Tim was at first interested in one that would increase intelligence, which may have benefited him, but like the idiot he was, he desired to feed it to Captain Skitters.

The alchemist looked at the vile thing from the open door. “It helps none what have no brain.”

Tim blinked. “What?”

Aestith rolled his eyes. “This potion temporarily multiplies one’s intelligence. Now imagine that the intelligence you are trying to multiply is a flat zero sum.”

Tim was silent a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Oh.”

Aestith purchased a vial of Assassin’s Blood before they left. When they were out of the shop, Kairon commented, “So that old woman is dead.”

Tim looked at Captain Skitters, and back at the shop. “But…”

“No,” the others chimed in unison.

Tim’s shoulders sagged.

They traveled to the Flagon and the Dragon. It was primarily a drow bar, and while the bartender had ale, their primary product was privacy; each booth had high walls and dark corners. What lights there were were dim. Dee was practically blind.

They piled into an empty booth. Aestith glanced around the room, knowing that while his co-owners certainly hadn’t noticed anything interesting about Aestith, others in the room certainly had. He stared at his cup of ale and reconsidered some of his life choices.

The party discussed what to do with Captain Skitters. Tim seemed convinced that he could keep it in the brothel, but no one was willing to allow that thing inside.

“He can go in the Skullport Room,” Tim insisted.

Aestith rolled his eyes. “How are you planning on sneaking that thing through Waterdeep?”  
Tim looked at Aestith hopefully. “Well, you have your satchel.”

“No.”

The warlock seemed crestfallen, but only as a minor setback. “What if I paid you?”

The cleric made a face, but sighed. “How much?”

They haggled, but Tim seemed unwilling to pay enough for Aestith to consider allowing that thing near his belongings. Tim discussed the merits of teleporting Captain Skitters out, or “setting it free” in the forest outside the city.

Dee said, “Tim. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Yeah, you are… probably more fucked up than Aestith,” Eilora said. Aestith scowled.

Tim stared blankly forward, eyes somewhere else, then he blinked. “Oh. A lot of people say things like that. Or they did, after I came out of the Horror Room.”

“Horror Room?” Kairon said.

Tim nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah. At my temple in Thay, we had a Horror Room. You get locked inside as part of your training.”

Eilora flipped her braid over her shoulder. “Why?”

The half-elf frowned. This simple question had clearly never occurred to him. “Well, because… Because you have to.”

“Are you sure this wasn’t some kind of elaborate prank?” Kairon said.

Tim smiled wanly. “Oh, no. Everyone goes into the Horror Room. Usually just for a couple days. I was there for longer.”

Aestith raised an eyebrow. “How’d you end up in Waterdeep?”

Tim’s smiled widened. “I was sent here.” A pause and his smile flickered. “Well. The master wizard told me that he had a very special task for me, and he told me to open the broom closet. I thought that he was just going to have me sweep the floors again, but when I opened the door, I was suddenly standing in a field outside Waterdeep.”

Dee choked on her ale, then collected herself. “He literally teleported you somewhere random?”  
Tim shook his head. “No. He wouldn’t do something like that.”

The rest of the group looked at one another in silence.

They finished the round of drinks with some discussion of adventuring, or what to do next. Tim got up to ask the barkeep something. Kairon glanced at Aestith. “When are we meeting your sisters again?”

“Three bells.” Except he used the Undercommon Enainsi slang instead of the translation, then jerked. “Ah, I meant to say, three days.” His voice was oddly high-pitched, squeaked out with his nervousness.

“Did we forget to oil the drow?” Eilora said.

Aestith scowled and slid from the booth. He stalked outside and lit a cigarette. Captain Skitters was exactly where they had left him, untouched. He stayed on the other side of the door from it. To his dismay, the rest of the party followed him. 

The others did what humans did when fleeing a burning building; they stopped just outside the door to discuss whatever nonsense Tim had concocted, which was finding a psionicist. A group of drow pushed through them giving Captain Skitters a wide berth and swearing under their breath.

Dee went back to the fortress when the others seemed willing to let Tim continue to be an idiot. With little better to do, the group marched off in search of Tim’s psionicist, but the barkeep had only given him a street and not an exact address.

“How do I find them?” Tim said, looking from stained door to tattered board.

“This is your problem,” Kairon reminded him.

Aestith sighed. “Have you considered knocking?”

Tim frowned. “Just go door to door?”

“I am having nothing to do with this,” Eilora said from the safe confines of her helmet. It was Ser Ambrose Everdawn’s helmet, after Tim had scraped off all symbols of Kelemvor and dented it so it wasn’t immediately recognizable. She usually wore it when they went from place to place in Skullport, because she stood out too much here. She had even awkwardly kept it on in the bar, which was for the best really.

Tim looked again to the others for help. When none was forthcoming, he sighed and strode to the first door. He knocked. “Hello. Have you heard about our lord and slaver, the Great Fiend below?” He persisted with this nonsense until a door finally opened. Tim seemed surprised. He said, “Hi, I’m Tim. I was looking for a psionicist named Telduzaro?”  
Kairon’s eyes bulged and he stalked toward the door. From a safe distance, he stared. His tail stopped moving and he grabbed the hilt of his sword. Aestith and Eilora curiously wandered over to to Kairon.

The mindflayer stood in the doorway, cradling an intellect devourer in its hands. Sitting by his feet was another, and a third scuffled behind him. Aestith could not have identified one illithid from another without vast differences in height or weight, but he had the odd sinking feeling that this might be the same one from the auction.

“Yes, I am Telduzaro,” the mindflayer said, petting the intellect devourer.

Tim’s smile did not falter. “You’re a psionicist?”  
“Yes.”

Tim gestured to Captain Skitters. “I was looking to have my mind linked with my pet, Captain Skitters, here, so I can control it like I do with Handsy.” He gestured to Handsy. The fingers waved.

The mindflayer looked at Captain Skitters, then back at Tim. “I can do that.”

Tim beamed. “Wonderful. How much will it cost?”

Telduzaro stroked his pet. “Oh, no cost.”

“Are you sure? I can pay.”

“Oh, no. Come on in.”

Tim looked at the intellect devourers. “Oh, I don’t know. Can’t we do it out here?”

“It is a delicate procedure and it is best we do it inside, where it is safer.”

Tim nodded, not at all aware of the imminent danger. “Okay. Let me grab Captain Skitters.”

“You can leave it outside.”

Tim paused. “When I was linked to Handsy, they needed the hand.”

Telduzaro stared deeply into Tim’s vapid soul. “I am a more skilled psionicist than whatever dabbler linked you to your hand.”

This seemed enough for Tim. He began to step forward. Kairon, moving faster than the heavy armor seemed possible, grabbed Tim’s shoulder and hauled him backwards. Tim nearly fell over. Kairon smiled pleasantly at the mindflayer, then spun Tim around to face him. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Tim?” He glanced at Captain Skitters. One of the heads lolled. A tongue flopped uselessly out of a mouth.

Tim smiled. “Yeah, I absolutely want to control Skitters.”

Kairon’s teeth gritted. “Tim…”

Tim looked back at his new friend. “Can I bring my friends with me?”

The mindflayer looked at the others. “My quarters are modest, but you may bring one.”

Tim stepped from Kairon’s adamantine grasp. “So who wants to come in with me?”

Eilora shook her head. “Not it.”

Tim looked at Aestith pleadingly. Aestith reached for his cigarette case. “No.”

Tim stared back at Kairon. “Please?”

Whatever sense the tiefling had possessed only a few seconds ago seemed to dissipate. Slowly, he looked at the mindflayer, the intellect devourers. “Can we put your pets in another room?”

“They’re very well trained,” Telduzaro assured him. “They will not bother you.”

Eilora handed Kairon a Sending Stone. He pocketed it. The tiefling gestured to Tim. “After you.”

Tim looked at Eilora and Aestith. “Could you watch Captain Skitters, please?”  
“Absolutely not,” Eilora snapped.

Tim sighed and picked up the rope leash. Telduzaro stepped aside. Aestith sighed and marched to Tim and Kairon. He placed a hand on each of their shoulders and cast Fox’s Cunning on them. Even that didn’t stop them from being stupid and Tim stepped toward the door.

Aestith backed up. He said to Eilora, “We could go get a drink while they die.”

She shook her head, unslinging her bow. “I think we should stay here.” Cakecake growled in agreement.

Aestith groaned, but backed up further. He lit his cigarette. The smell of burning cloves made the stink of the city only just bearable. Tim led Captain Skitters into the darkened room. Kairon followed behind him.

It went as expected.

The intellect devourers lunged and Tim fell back, stunned. Eilora charged. Aestith sighed and cast Sanctuary on Kairon. The drow yelled, “Don’t attack, just get out.”

Kairon took up a defensive posture and shoved Tim behind him. The intellect devourers threw themselves at Kairon, but Sanctuary held and the paladin stood tall, at his meager 5’6”. Eilora grabbed Tim. Cakecake snarled at the intellect devourers. Kairon shoved them both back, blocking the door. Aestith cast another Sanctuary, this one on Eilora. One of the intellect devourers rushed between the tiefling’s feet and under his tail. It leapt at Eilora. The spell repelled it and it slammed into Cakecake. Cakecake slumped to one side. Eilora screamed.

Kairon booted Cakecake. Eilora and Tim spilled from the doorway. Kairon turned back to face the mindflayer and his pets.

Tim, from his daze, said, “Pet intellect devourers are officially off my list.”

Eilora dropped Tim and snatched Cakecake. Tim stumbled, but stood upright. Kairon slowly turned around. He drew his sword. Tim stared. “Kairon? Kairon!”

The tiefling charged toward him with a righteous wrath. The blade cleaved into Tim. After everything, it was difficult to say if it were not Kairon’s wrath alone, or the work of the mindflayer. Aestith bolted down the street.

Eilora held Cakecake close to her, a wailing sob caught in her throat. “Fuck you, Tim!” she yelled, and ran after Aestith. Kairon raised the sword for another swing. Tim reached deep within his well of magic and dark pacts, and cast.

He stepped into a dimensional door. Kairon went with him. They rematerialized on a narrow bridge above them. Kairon was not fortunate enough to be on the bridge and fell. Aestith looked back when the tiefling hit the ground. The wooden street seemed to echo a faint tremor. Kairon clumsily came to his feet. He cast about for an easy way to Tim, then froze in place. Slowly, he turned and walked back to Telduzaro.

Tim reached out and, in a blind panic at what fate he had condemned Kairon to, created a wall of fire from Kairon to the door, a bright beacon sixty feet high. Kairon, in his blind devotion to his mindlfayer master, walked directly through it. Then he stopped.

He swore, cursing loudly, then ran the other way from the mindflayer.

Aestith and Eilora ran past the Feathered Rat as the door opened. Tirowan stared at them in shock, then she took off after them. “Why are we running?” she called.

“Tim!” Eilora said. This was enough explanation for her and she kept pace.

They stopped in a stairwell. Eilora, crying, cast Pass Without Trace, and they dashed for the fortress. All around the city, the Skulls of Skullport lit, and looked.

#

Eilora dropped the helmet on the floor. It rolled. She swiped the tears from her eyes but they continued to spill. She choked on a sob and pushed her face against Cakecake’s oddly colored fur.

Tirowan patted her shoulder reassuringly, but seemed almost as uncomfortable as Aestith. Tirowan and Aestith explained to Dee and Deekin what had happened, and the halfling fell silent, watching Eilora cry. Cakecake drooled.

Eilora reached for a pendant she wore. “I need… I need to use the last Greater Restoration on this amulet. I have to…” She sobbed. “I let this happen to you!”  
Aestith resisted a sigh and knelt in front of her. “Eilora. We might need that amulet.”

“But Cakecake! This is my fault. I brought him out of the forest. I brought him down here. If I’d just stayed in the forest, I might have died, but at least Cakecake would live.”

Tirowan said, “Why would you die in the forest?”

She swiped at her running nose. “Deekin said elves can die of boredom.”

Aestith, Tirowan, and Dee stared at Deekin for a moment, then looked back at Eilora. Tirowan said, “Eilora dear. Calm down. Does anyone have anything to drink?”

Dee handed Eilora a bottle. Eilora took a drought of the wine and handed it back. She sniffed. She told Dee, “Thank you.”

Aestith took a deep breath. “Eilora, I know you want Cakecake back. I am asking you to wait. We have a favor at the Temple of Kelemvor and they will cast the spell you need. We might be in a more dire situation one day and your amulet could be useful.”

“But…”

Tirowan pursed her lips, as if she had bitten something sour. “Aestith is correct, dear.”

“But will Cakecake be okay? How will he eat?”

Aestith stared at her blankly. He began to suggest a tube--they used such things to force someone to swallow hot lead in Enainsi--but thought better of it. “I’m sure that Olvera will know how to care for him.”

Eilora hugged her pet close, pushing her face into his neck. The others stayed near her, some as support, others only to watch her. Deekin moved up the stairs and the sound of a bagpipe playing a tune for a fallen hero echoed through the fortress walls. Aestith moved toward the door, and waited.

The door pushed open slowly, a fraction at a time and Tim shoved his way through. “Hey, I made it out—”

Aestith slammed the hilt of his rapier into Tim’s head. The warlock collapsed. Aestith sheathed the weapon. Eilora looked up from unbuckling Cakecake’s armor. “Aestith, what are you doing?”

“I’m going to kill Tim,” he said bluntly as he removed his satchel of holding.

Eilora moved as if to rise. Dee said, “Eilora. Remember what he did to Cakecake.”

Tirowan added, “And the petshop.”

“And the existence of Captain Skitters.”

Deekin said, “And Ser Ambrose Everdawn.”

“And Kairon.”

Eilora grabbed the Sending Stone. “Kairon!”

His voice came from the other end, “Eilora?”  
She said, “Where are you?”

“Having a drink at the Flagon and the Dragon. Why? What did Tim do now?”  
A pause. “Aestith is trying to kill him.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Kairon!”

There was no reply that time and Eilora sighed and dropped the stone.

Aestith plucked two candies from his bag and shoved them into Tim’s mouth. He forced him to swallow them with a splash of Tim’s low quality alcohol. Tim’s imp howled in glee.

“Maybe we shouldn’t kill people in the fortress,” Eilora tried for a compromise.

Aestith shrugged. “The Skulls are active right now.”

“Just wait,” she pleaded.

Aestith looked at Tim. “He dies.” Dee helped Aestith load Tim into the satchel. Eilora jerked to look in disbelief at Tirowan and Deekin. The high elf shrugged. Deekin only watched.

Aestith carried the satchel up a flight of stairs, and reached for his sacrificial dagger. He shouldn’t have; Eilora noticed. The elf careened after him. Dee and Tirowan followed.

Eilora gripped Aestith’s arm. “I’m not letting you sacrifice him to Lolth!”

Aestith frowned. “What’s the difference? Dead is dead.”

“Not in the house!”

Aestith sneered and tried to yank his arm back but her grip held. “Just go back to Cakecake. Remember that it’s Tim’s fault.”

“I’m not letting you condemn his soul to damnation!”

“You don’t know that that’s what happens.”

Eilora looked at Aestith flatly. “No.”

Aestith looked at the three, each of which seemed to agree with Eilora. This was his fault; he had been far too eager. He needed the sacrifice though. Something in the back of his mind itched; he needed this death. “Just turn around and leave. I’ll wait until the Skulls are dormant, and I’ll leave, and you can claim plausible deniability.”

“You don’t even deny that that’s what you were going to do,” Tirowan gasped.

Eilora reached for her bow. “I’m not letting you do it. Kill him if you want, but I’m not letting you do that.”

Aestith’s teeth gritted. How could he explain to this fae-blooded idiot how much he needed this? “I’m just going to throw him into his room then, and we’ll figure it out later.”

“You won’t though.”

If he let Eilora calm down, she’d never stand by and let Tim die. He had to do this now, or not at all. “Then let me throw him out the window.” He reached into his satchel and grabbed Tim’s hair. He yanked his head out of the bag. He gasped. Against reason, Tim’s unfocused eyes opened, and he seemed to have a moment of comprehension. “Impy, get the bag and help me,” he wheezed.

Impy, compelled to do its master’s bidding, dove under Aestith’s dress to grab the bag. Aestith tried to grab at the imp with his left hand, but it slipped around him and Aestith lost his hold on Tim. The imp grabbed the bag and dumped Tim from it. “Kill him!” it screamed. “Free me!”

“Get the bag!” he yelled. “It has the potion!”

Tirowan missed with a spell, but Dee hit it. The imp, with its already meager body, died and dissipated. Aestith snatched his satchel from the floor and replaced it. Tim fumbled feebly in an effort to get up. Aestith reached for his rapier and stabbed him in the chest. He removed it and cleaned the blood. Eilora was relieved it was not a sacrifice.

Dee helped Aestith shove the body out of the window. It hit the wooden street below with a thump. In Skullport, it was not an uncommon occurrence.

They retired for a meal and before it was over, they heard a thump and a breaking noise from upstairs. Felrax frowned at the dragonchess board. Tirowan seemed to be winning their game. “I think someone is breaking in.” He rolled up his sleeves. Despite the charade, he was a wizard.

“Finish your game. I’ll look,” Dee said as she shirked washing dishes and bolted out the door. Spotting a similar opportunity to put off mundane chores, Aestith followed her. Eilora may have followed for more moral reasons.

Dee came down the stairs, nearly running into Aestith. She whispered, “Tim is walking down the stairs.”

Aestith and Eilora glanced at one another. “How?”

“Isn’t he dead?”

“That’s what I saw,” Dee insisted.

Eilora notched an arrow to her bow and started up the stairs. Aestith went with her, crossbow in hand. Tim was indeed walking down the stairs. His face, different clothing, a more confident air about him, and quite disturbing. “Stop,” Aestith growled.

Not-Tim held up his hands. “Whoa, who are you?”  
“We’re asking the questions here.” Aestith pointed the crossbow at him. Eilora drew back her bow. “Why are you Tim?”  
The other paused. “Well, I could be you.” The features shifted and darkened, shrunk to Aestith’s height. His own face stared back at him. Not-Aestith looked at Eilora. “Or you.” It shifted and grew into her.

“Doppelganger!”

The features settled back on Tim. “No! Not a doppelganger. I’m a changeling.”

The tension on Eilora’s bow relaxed. Changelings gave up their status as such only rarely, and usually only under duress. What did the changeling want? Eilora said, “Can you prove it?”  
The changeling stared at her. “Really?”

“Prove you’re not a doppelganger,” Aestith insisted.

The other gave him a flat look. “Well. I can’t read your thoughts, and I don’t have a lisp.”

Aestith’s lips pursed. “How do you know Tim?”

“We were at the temple together. He thought we were friends.”

Dee sighed. “That sounds like Tim.”

The changeling nodded. “I was in Skullport, and I happened to see someone that looked like Tim fall. So I went to look at the body and it was.” He looked around the fortress. “I figure if that idiot got in here, I could too.”

Eilora was dubious. “Why would you think that’s a good idea?”  
Not-Tim raised an eyebrow. “Tim wasn’t very good at the whole ‘idea’ thing. I just wanted to see what killed him.”

“I did,” Aestith said flatly.

The changeling nodded. “He’s annoying.”

“Darlings, who is this? What the fuck,” Tirowan gasped.

“A changeling, apparently,” Aestith said, gesturing with the crossbow.

The changeling looked at the bolt, still pointed at him. “Um, excuse me.”

Aestith glanced down at his crossbow. “Oh.” He frowned, then kept it pointed at him. “So explain why we shouldn’t kill you.”

The changeling looked from one to the other. “Most of you are from the surface, right? I’m trying to get back at some point myself.”

“That doesn’t explain why we shouldn’t kill you. You snuck in here, you know Tim.” Aestith glared down the bolt at him.

The changeling sighed and his face rippled a moment, then settled into the curiously blank face of a changeling. “My name is Nix. I’m a sorcerer from Thay.”

“Do you know Tim’s patron? Because he didn’t,” Dee said.  
Nix rolled his pale eyes, in the same motion making them a vivid green for the effect to come across to the others. “He’s such an idiot.” He glanced at the window. “Was an idiot.”

“What’s in it for you?” Aestith pressed.

Nix stared at him. “Well. I need help getting back to the surface. And I’m broke so I can’t hire people.”

Tirowan sighed and nodded. “We’ve all been there, darling.”

Aestith considered, and finally holstered the crossbow. He glanced at the others. “A changeling sorcerer might be useful.”

Nix seemed relieved. “Great. What are we doing then?”

“Finishing dinner,” Tirowan said, and turned around. Nix followed them down to dinner. Deekin and Felrax worked on repairing the boarded window that Nix had come in from. Kairon came back shortly after, threw out several more questions at Nix, most of them a repeat of previous. “Can you turn into a gnome?” Kairon demanded.

Nix’s face shimmered. He looked like a freakishly tall gnome. “Not very well.”

Kairon nodded. “Good.” He looked at the others. “Well, what about Tim’s share of the brothel?”

Nix was elbow-deep rifling through Tim’s backpack of belongings. “Brothel?”

Eilora pet one of the cats on her lap. “Yeah, we are actually all co-owners of a brothel. Tim did our accounting. Shit.”

Tirowan shrugged. “Good thing we hired Richard.”

Dee gestured at Tirowan. “She’s actually one of our courtesans.”

“I’m the madame.”

Nix considered. “What are the rates? Commission, I mean?”  
“It varies by each courtesan’s experience and desirability,” Tirowan preened. She had the highest rates in the brothel.

Nix frowned, and his form shimmered into an eladrin elf. “Well, I wouldn’t mind working there.”

“You any good at accounting?” Eilora said.

Nix shook his head and snorted a laugh. “No. I meant as a courtesan.”

Aestith tilted his head. “You know, a changeling courtesan could be quite useful. We could have a catalog of different faces and body types you could be and just have the customers meet you in the room.”

He nodded, his face shifting into a more devious tabaxi. “Good idea.” His face returned to normal. “But I want to see this brothel first. What kind of place is it?”

“It’s a higher end brothel.”

Kairon frowned. “Does anyone else think it’s weird that our two main spellcasters are whores?”  
“Courtesans,” Tirowan corrected.

Eilora checked on Cakecake, pet him for a while, and carried him to her small quarters. The cats followed her. Dee explained what had happened to Cakecake. Nix’s eyes bulged in disbelief, his persona dropping to his normal blank face, as if he had no words, and could hardly form thoughts beyond the stupidity of the situation.

He looked at Kairon. “And you went along with it?”

Kairon shrugged weakly. “I thought… Nothing could be that obvious, right?”

Nix rubbed his temples. “What am I doing with my life?”

Aestith snorted. “I ask myself that every day.” He strutted past and went to his room to pray. He felt as though he needed all the assistance he could muster to deal with his sisters.

#

Bribes were made. The jaws of the trap were set and eager to close.

Sailanshin and Kai did what was expected of male drow; they paved the way for their betters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last year on April Fools, we ran the MLP DnD campaign and all of our characters turned into ponies. The story has been getting a bit dark, so I thought some funny content might be appreciated.
> 
> Aestith was the angriest of unicorns: https://imgur.com/seF8lua


	30. The Trial of Lolth

Aestith spent hours getting ready, not because he was dressing up overmuch, but because he kept starting to get dressed, grew terrified, and stepped into his men’s clothing. Then, he decided that was ridiculous, and changed again, and so forth. He at first slipped on his normal attire, then stuffed it back into his satchel.

He wished he could ask Arcedi what to do, just to hear Arcedi say something sarcastic or amusing that would take his mind off of the task at hand. What would Arcedi say? Aestith didn’t know--his thoughts were too tumultuous to consider what the pale drow might have thought were he here. Arcedi danced through life, figuratively and literally. While the other may not have understood Aestith’s plight, he could have lightened the burden of it.

Aestith removed a different dress from the satchel. For reasons he didn’t know himself, he had brought Xaiviryn’s gift; the beautiful black and purple riding dress so vaguely reminiscent of a priestess’s robes. He held it close as if it still carried some faint tracery scent of Xaiviryn.

He wished the male were here, with his overconfident grin and scheming nature. He would know what to do. He would have already moved several steps ahead, taken every precaution. Aestith didn’t even know where to begin.

He missed him.

The realization made him feel oddly cold and even troubled. How could he miss him? He could understand longing for Xaiviryn; he missed him in bed. But now Aestith just missed him, and it wasn’t even about sex, was it?

The dress made him feel confident and good-looking. It made him feel like the cleric he was. He felt desirable. He needed all the confidence he was able to scrounge. Maybe it was wrong, but he kept on the outfit. He reasoned that, while the color scheme was  _ similar _ to a priestess, it was certainly not a priestess’s robes.

He spent several minutes trying to stop shaking before he painted his lips, wondered if he should dare, wiped it off, then did it again. He braided his hair twice, finally settled on a style, and pushed the hairpins into the braids. He wiggled his hands into the gauntlets, took several calming breaths, and stepped out to collect the others.

Tirowan said, “Aestith, it took you hours to get ready. What are you expecting?”

He shrugged hopelessly. “It is difficult to say.” He hesitated. “Eilora, Tirowan, I think the two of you should be on the second level balcony. Dee, no one will notice you. Deekin—”  
“Isn’t coming!” he called as he strutted from the room.

Aestith shrugged and looked at Kairon. “You will fit in better than anyone else. You should be in the main room, and try to keep me in line of sight.” He looked at Nix. “Nix—”

Nix grinned and warped into a rather generic-looking female drow. “I can fit right in.”

Aestith didn’t know how to explain to him that, no, he couldn’t. “You’ll stand out far too much here and there will be questions. You’ll draw attention.”

He shifted into male. “How’s this?”

“You can’t see in infrared. Or even in the dark. Do you know Undercommon?”

“The language.”

Aestith sighed. “No, you can’t pass as a drow.”

He frowned, and his eyes turned a milky white. “What if I’m blind?”

The cleric stared at him blankly. “We cull drow that are born imperfect.”

He frowned, then a scar rippled across the features, as if his eyes had been put out by some kind of fire. “How’s this?”

Aestith made a face. “Just be a tiefling. It would make more sense as to why you’re with Kairon.”

Nix shrugged and his form passed into that of a male tiefling, without a tail. Kairon frowned. “Can you make a tail?”  
“Yes,” Nix said. “But I don’t have the right kind of trousers.”  
“Can you move it?”  
Nix frowned. “Yes--wait, you can’t?”

Kairon’s tail thumped against the stone. “Nope.”

Nix’s frown deepened as he slowly came to the realization that he was being teased. It may have never happened to him before.

They traveled some distance together, then Eilora and Tirowan split up to easily get to the second floor from the upper level. Aestith insisted that the remaining enter at different times.

_ We have arrived. _

It wasn’t Amalette.

The three words, sent directly to his mind, were Haeltania’s. She was no spellcaster. The sentence, wholly unnecessary, must have been done using a scroll or something of that nature. Something bought specifically to gift him with a moment of fear.

Aestith’s blood ran cold. He contemplated running back to the room he had occupied and barricading the door. He considered running to the wizard who could teleport him back to Waterdeep. What was he doing here? Why had he come? He should have known better than to even contact Amalette. He was an idiot. He should have listened to Xaiviryn. Why hadn’t he listened?

Drow survived by fear, though none would ever admit so aloud. If Aestith had begun to feel fear the way that he should, did that mean he was changing? He had always felt emotions as some distant thing, but they were coming more easily now, more readily. It wasn’t always pleasant. He wished he could feel nothing again. To realize that he was becoming more like other drow, in ways, fell just short of comforting. He didn’t want to be different from them or set apart, yet he wanted to be chosen by Lolth at the same time. Was he finally experiencing emotions the way others did? Was this what they felt like?

He wished it would stop.

Of all the remaining sisters he had, why did it have to be Haeltania? Haeltania, who was most likely to kill him.

Dee wandered into the bar.

Aestith stood paralyzed, staring down the street unmoving. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. He wished he could change his clothing, take Deekin’s hat and disguise himself to be anyone else. He wasn’t ready to do this. He wasn’t ready to face Haeltania. Amalette would have been bad enough. Why was it Haeltania?

“Oh, too bad, they’re not here. Time to go,” Aestith said without opening the door, and turned around. Nix and Kairon watched him curiously. Kairon’s tail pressed against Aestith’s stomach as he tried to step past.

“We did not come all this way so you could decide to hoard the bloodmoss for yourself,” Kairon informed him.

It was so incredibly petty, so very  _ like _ Kairon, that he thought this was merely greed, and not trepidation. The accusation of greed spurred Aestith to spin back around, however. “It’s not about the bloodmoss.”

“Oh?”

Explaining why he wanted to run would mean admitting fear, admitting defeat. He couldn’t do that. Drow do not admit weakness; an admission of weakness was an invitation for another to subjugate you. Aestith smothered the cold lump of fear over a facade of confidence and indignance. If he ignored the emotions, perhaps they would stop. Why was he having them now, of all times? Aestith huffed and walked past him, into the bar.

The bar was quiet, but it had been quiet before too, but it had been the sort of quiet that came when small groups would drink in silence. It was a quiet that came from communicating in whispers or signing. The silence of individual groups talking quietly was different from the silence of a mostly empty room, what few were left mute as they watched from the dark corners of their booths.

At first, he pretended not to see Haeltania, as if after all this time, he did not recognize her. She watched him as if she had expected his appearance, not at all taken aback by it. She had no need to beckon to him as one who beckons to a pet, for she fully expected him to approach her like a cowed slave awaiting its master’s scolding.

Aestith held his head up. He refused to back down. He refused to act “male”. He was a cleric. He had earned the right to at least treat them as equal rather than greater than he, hadn’t he? 

His male genitals felt oddly exposed, even disproportionately heavy, as if he had forgotten trousers. It felt like everyone could see him for what he was--less than male. Mutated, should have been killed at birth for being imperfect. Shame weighed on his shoulders like a heavy cloak, threatening to bend his back.

What was he doing? Idiot boy, trying to be more than worthless. A mutation, trying to be more than a mistake. Why hadn’t his sisters just killed him when he was born? He wouldn’t know the difference.

His eyes flicked around the room. When he had been here last, there were mostly drow. Today, there were two quaggoths in the center of the room. Two bugbears sat in a booth near the door, and two more were on the second floor balcony. Doubtless, they were there both to protect his sisters, and to subdue Aestith if he chose to run or fight.

Haeltania sat in the dusty booth as if it were a throne, her hair styled into loose curls that complimented her exquisite features. Her skin bore no blemish or scar and her fingernails were manicured and painted a burnished gold that matched the gold in her ears. He had almost forgotten how beautiful she was; she was the image of drow perfection, from her straight-backed poise, to the elegant bow curve of her painted lips.

He felt hideous.

Beside her lounged Descaronan. Where Haeltania was the image of beauty, Descaronan exuded raw power. Her hair would have only been an unnecessary distraction, and so was cropped short. It drew the eye to her features, instead. She used no paints or powders, instead relying on the strength of her arm or the endurance of her leg to carry her to the perfection drow strove toward. She would never wear heels, save for riding, and was tall enough not to require them anyway. The muscles in her arms were relaxed, but at any moment could coil and spring with enough power behind a wielded spear to impale him to the floor if she so chose.

He felt weak.

If the earth had opened up and swallowed him, this would have been acceptable. The two most likely to kill him. The two who liked him least. Why had Amalette done this to him? He felt betrayed, but simultaneously, unsurprised. Why had he ever expected anything less?

_ You’ve been away from home too long, Aes. You’re thinking like the other races. You keep expecting them to play fair and you to be the devious one, but that’s not how it is. _

He tried to act unsurprised, and slid into the booth. Three tankards sat on the table, one in front of each of them. His was full, the liquid cool and inviting. His throat was parched with fear. “It’s been a long time, Haeltania,” Aestith said, and hated himself. He could not bring himself to look at her face.

“It has, little brother.”

His fingers, resting on his leg, clenched. “I don’t know if I should be impressed or flattered that you ventured all the way here for me. In heels, no less.”

She smiled. Her lips were painted black, a darker shade than her skin. Red was too bold for her. She was, without doubt, the most beautiful woman Aestith had ever seen. “You need not concern yourself that it was ever a compliment, little brother.” She paused. “It seems that the surface has treated you well.”

He started to reach for the cup and stopped, tried to compose himself. Drinking anything could smudge the red on his lips, and he needed all the aplomb it gave him. He could almost feel the freckles burning into his skin. “Well. You know how I am with directions. I just got lost and couldn’t find my way back.”

Her smile stretched like a serpent’s. “The surface suits you.”

Aestith said, “I’ve found a great many things suit me, sister. The surface was never one of them.”

“Yet you’ve been away from home so long. Why, dear brother?”

He glanced back at the cup. His spine straightened. “I had few options.”

Her perfectly curled hair brushed her cheek as she nodded. “Options are things seldom granted to males.”

He fantasized, briefly, about throwing the contents of the cup in her face. The paint and creams carefully applied would run down her beautiful features. The curls would fall out. It would almost be worth Descaronan’s spear through his chest. “Well. It is to my benefit, then, that things have changed for me.”

“Have they?” she wondered, as if she truly did not see the way he looked. He had spent so much time and effort in his appearance that it made him want to scream. “Yes, I suppose that when one ends puberty, there are some changes.” She tilted her head. “So, little brother, when was the last you prayed to Lolth?”

“Every bell, Haeltania. I have to.” He did not say it was because it was how he was granted his power.

She smiled, as if she found that amusing, the way a pet was amusing. Drow often killed their pets, either from sadism, neglect, or because their mothers insisted. “Indeed. And the last time you’ve even seen a proper shrine to the Queen of Spiders?”

His lips pressed together, and he said nothing. She didn’t know about the temple. And, suddenly, he preferred it that way.

She said. “Come, you must pray to her.” She stepped from the booth. Descaronan slid after her. Aestith didn’t know how to refuse, he realized with growing horror. How could he refuse a female drow? It was like an invisible yoke had slipped around his neck and he had no option but to follow where he was led.

He felt as if he were some small creature, whisked away in a flood and caught up in the current; he moved with them. Each shifted to flank him; the vision of beauty to one side and strength on the other, with an unworthy and mutated younger brother sandwiched between them. The bugbears rose. The quaggoths trailed behind.

In his mind, Tirowan said,  _ Do you want us to follow? Where are you going? _

Aestith replied,  _ Yes? No. A shrine. _

_ Why? Stay here! Don’t go with them. _

_ I can’t. _

She didn’t understand. She didn’t know what it was like. Drow males are subservient to the females. That was how it was. He didn’t know how to refuse. Was it even possible? The thought of repudiating them frightened him more than going with them.

#

Haeltania and Descaronan stayed, one on each side of him. Sometimes, one of them would stride forward, the other slightly behind him, then the one in front would fall back and the other shifted forward. The unsteady pace made it easier for them to rotate shifts to watch him, and swapping at odd intervals made it difficult for him to time when they would be moving. The odd pace forced him have to consistently shift his own pace to either keep up or slow down, as the alternative was following in their wake, like a slave. It was an obvious power move, a manipulation tactic meant to solidify that he was insignificant and that he, to use a drow idiom, had become tangled in the web he had tried to weave.

To further complicate matters were the bugbears and quaggoth behind them.

He should just dig in his heels. He could cast a few spells and get out. What had he prepared? Distantly, he heard the river far below.  _ Control Water. _ If he flooded the city, that would awaken the Skulls though.

_ Think! _

Guardian of Faith would stall them, but not for long. They would catch him if he ran.

It was odd to him that he could justify fleeing from them, but he could not bear to refuse them. Words might be cheap, but they extracted a heavy toll.

He knew very well what happened to male drow and the imperfect at Lolth’s shrines. Lolth valued nothing more than a sacrifice of that which she treasured the most: Drow. And males were expendable. A malformed male who had been on the surface? What use was he, except as a sacrifice?

His head bowed.

He was worthless. A male masquerading as female. Nothing could change that. Worse, he didn’t want to--and maybe that was his true crime. Lolth had blessed him, and the most he had done with it was to enjoy its carnal pleasures and dress up his form in things unbefitting of males. And he was still, undeniably, male in many ways.

The malformed are killed at birth. His younger sisters were sacrificed. He should have been too. He  _ wasn’t _ worthy of this power. It would be like Lolth to toy with him so, to tease her own true clerics with granting these abilities to one such as he, to taunt them until they killed him.

It hadn’t been terrible, had it? The power, his hopes, dreams?

Aestith chanced a glance back at the entourage. They would catch him if he ran. He could walk, or he could be dragged. He refused to go to his death being drug and beaten like a disobedient animal. If he died, he could rest easy in knowing he had tasted what it was to be a cleric. He knew what it was not to hide who and what he was. He knew what it was like to have someone else see what he could be. He had been bold enough to try.  He could be satisfied knowing that he had dared what Haeltania could not bring herself to do. The red on his lips did not crack.

They brought him out of Skullport.

Tirowan screamed,  _ Don’t go with them! Stall! _

Aestith replied,  _ I have to. _

He’d willingly give himself to Lolth. Nothing else truly mattered. It was through her that he had lived this long--what more could he ask for? Without her, he was already dead.

He put up no resistance. 

Amalette had once read to him a ghost story full of horror and drama that captivated his imagination. When he had been frustrated at the way the characters had behaved, he asked her why they would do that. She had said,  _ That’s how the story goes. _ If he died now, that was simply the way the story went.

One way or another, this would end.  _ Would it? _

Aestith had once asked Amalette why so many of the surface books had “happy” endings. She had partially quoted another book,  _ There are no happy endings, Aestith. Nothing ever ends. _ She had gone on to ask him if he really believed that the characters would be happy and satisfied after the ending, and had been pleased when he concluded that they couldn’t be. Drow were not content; it wasn’t in their nature, so a story ending in contentment was dissatisfactory to his young palate. He could rise or fall, but he couldn’t stay stationary.

At every intersection on the tunnel, he waited until they were nearly out of range of one of his cantrips, and he cast Sacred Flame on the roof of the cavern, leaving a scorched symbol of Lolth. They saw it. They all saw it.

At one such intersection, a bugbear, perhaps seeing what Aestith did, stopped and went to a heavy-looking Dwarven door, long since unused, and carved the symbol into the door with a knife. Aestith put his own mark on the ceiling.

Tirowan,  _ We lost you. Where do we go? _

_ Marks on the ceiling. _

He should have told them to turn around and go back. What could they hope to accomplish? What stake did they have in if he lived or died?

_ The bloodmoss, the brothel. _ Possibly that he had all of their supplies. That amused him. Maybe if his sisters were feeling particularly benevolent, they would let them pick over Aestith’s body before they slaughtered and enslaved them. Bringing down Kairon would be the most difficult, but they could manage. Tirowan and Eilora would prove amusing playthings until their bodies gave out.

They stopped at a town that, by the architecture, used to be Dwarven. The city sported marks of its previous fall in warped stone from spells or pockmarked pits. Aestith had lived in such a place for a while, but Drow had been here long enough to alter it. Drow preferred to sculpt with magic rather than tools, and parts had been repaired or reshaped. Giant Spiders patrolled the streets and the cavern ceiling. Thick webs covered the ceiling, stretched between buildings. Small spiders wove webs in corners. The sentries rose and bowed to them as they passed.

Each of the sentries were male. Their armor sported a pattern of webs, tailored so perfectly to their bodies that where the metal ended, the pattern began uninterrupted on the leather.

“Welcome home, little brother,” Haeltania said as they passed.

She had only spoken to humiliate him further, to point out within earshot of the strangers  that he was male. “We’re a long way from Enainsi,” he said blandly.

His misguided cohorts would not reach this far.

As he thought it, Tirowan said,  _ Aestith, where are you? _

He replied,  _ There’s a town of Drow ahead. _

That should ward them off anyway. He sighed. Why had he come down here? Did he really think this would end any other way?

“Why so glum, little brother?”

_ I was just contemplating my inevitable mortality. _ He said, “I’ve always been like this. It would be like you not to notice.”

“Yes, one tends not to notice things so far beneath their feet.”

Aestith’s lip curled, then he schooled his expression. “That’s how you trip.”

“Or trod into dung.”

Aestith marked the outlet they left the town from. At a fork, one of the bugbears traveled down one way. There was a noise like a vicious dog snarling, and then it came back, slinging a pack over its shoulders. The noises continued.

Aestith marked the path they took. He could hear running water, and thought again of the Control Water spell. They could all drown, theoretically. He wouldn’t be so lucky.

The spiders in the next room left them be as they passed. They entered a large hall, filled with graffiti in Undercommon, the statues defaced, sometimes literally, and the Dwarven sarcophagi defiled. A temple built and dedicated specifically to Lolth was something that pleased and suited Lolth, but one stolen from another god and defiled was the difference between juice and wine. It seemed to press down on him and loom over him, just another reminder that he could never hope to achieve anything close to what others had accomplished. He would always fall short of that greatness.

There were things that a priestess required, and  _ he _ lacked them.

They turned down a hall. Aestith marked it.

Haeltania smirked. “Do you really think your friends will come for you?”

“I don’t have friends.”

“Slaves, then.”

Aestith shook his head. “That sounds like far too much responsibility for me.”

She nodded, as if this were reasonable. “You were always very irresponsible, little brother.”

_ Not once has she said my name. Not once. _ And always the inflection that conveyed to him exactly what she thought of him, as if it were an insult. “I see you’ve never developed a sense of humor,” he mused. Aestith cast her with his most wide-eyed, innocent stare. “Actually, it is merely that I have a great propensity for getting lost. How else do you suspect I ended up on the surface? I simply couldn’t find my way back.”

Her fingers twitched, as if she were eagerly awaiting something. What? His death, probably. “Perhaps you are more like these surfacers than you believe, little brother.”

Her smirk made him long to peel her face off of her skull. The thought shocked him. Male drow were killed if they even fought back against a woman. A violent thought should have been enough for his own death. Fear crept back into his mind. If he had been away for so long that he had even dared to have such a thought, maybe he did deserve death. Maybe it was his only chance to redeem how twisted he was away from what he should have been.

He could not think of a witty or sarcastic retort. He cast about for one blindly, and uncharacteristically blurted, “The only problem with our culture, sister, is that so many of us take ourselves far too seriously.” It was the culture, wasn’t it? Xaiviryn and his crew made jokes, some of them even danced or played instruments. Arcedi was silly to the point of annoyance. It wasn’t that Drow couldn’t be comedic--it was that so much of their culture was too serious. And, perhaps, that many other races didn’t like or appreciate their sense of humor.

Aestith sidestepped the butt of Descaronan’s spear. “That’s precisely what I mean, Descaronan,” he chimed.

“I could have your tongue cut out for blasphemy, little brother,” Haeltania purred.

He raised an eyebrow. “What was blasphemous? Criticizing a person, or a group of persons, for not understanding jokes or sarcasm was never blasphemous. I’ve known several individual drow with a sense of humor, but so many are tragically lacking.”

“On the surface, I imagine,” she said with a smirk. “Of course  _ they _ have forgotten what it means to be Drow.”

He thought of Arcedi. “You should not speak when you know little of a subject.”

“You walk on a fine thread, little brother.”

What did it matter? They were going to kill him either way. It hardly mattered what he said or what he didn’t, except perhaps that they may decide to torture him first. “So do spiders.”

They walked up a staircase. The stone had worn in the center, pressed down from many feet over the centuries. They went down another series of old halls and corridors, cut tunnels, past some slaves mining. A male drow wizard watched over them, and bent his head as the women passed. The wall at the end of the tunnel was finely cut and flat, a seam down the center like a door but with no obvious handle. A pattern of a mountain etched across it, with a fist-sized chunk of the wall missing at the center.

Descaronan stepped forward and pressed a jewel into the hole. The doors ground apart.

It didn’t matter that the others had tracked them. How would they ever get in? Aestith followed Haeltania inside and Descaronan walked closely behind him. The doors shut with a grinding like a millstone. The escorts remained outside.

Small and giant spiders roved about the countless webs. No light had ever defiled the room. Before them, at the back of the room, was a male, partway cocooned and struggling. Similar cocoons wiggled in the webs, or were still. A female drow stood before him, clad in a robe whose black silk would seamlessly blend to her exquisitely dark skin with the purple silk standing out in vibrant contrast. Her straight hair hung down to her hips. Her beauty and the power she wielded needed no jewelry to draw attention to herself, as her mere presence commanded it, but still platinum accented her attire. She ran a hand along the male’s jaw. Her thumb traced his whimpering lips as intimately as if she had once kissed them.

Slowly, the priestess turned. Before her stretched a circular dais, perhaps twenty feet wide. “Haeltania Rix. Come.” Haeltania eagerly ascended the dais to stand before her.

Aestith’s breathing came shallowly and he forced himself to take long breaths. He refused to look down. He was going to die, yes, but it would be on his terms. He had promised himself years ago that it would be on his terms.

He whispered a prayer.

A male drow stepped from an alcove. He was adorned in silver jewelry, a web of silver and copper chains, and nothing else. The slave offered his mistress a long ebony box. She ignored him. Two others walked after the first, similarly clad. They dressed Haeltania in a beautifully woven mithril chain mail with the subtlest of web patterns in the chain. It was customary for those with power to flaunt it by clothing themselves in very little, to show that they were unarmed and unarmored and feared no threat. Haeltania was more nervous than she pretended, or she wouldn’t have armed herself so. Upon her head was placed a circlet set with red gems. He wanted to call them rubies, but remembered the bixbite. Emeralds could be red.

People could be more than they appeared. Or less.

The priestess opened the offered box and lifted the item inside. The bone handle had been carved with a spider pattern, jeweled eyes on the end. The other side was a nest of vipers. She handed the weapon to Haeltania. The snakes hissed and snapped, but did not bite. They curled and explored, caressed Haeltania, and fixed themselves to her belt.

Descaronan stepped forward, so suddenly that Aestith jumped. The butt of her spear took him in the small of his back and he pitched forward. She straddled him, a boot on either side. Her fingers plunged into his braids and yanked his head back until he struggled to breathe. Haeltania descended the dais. She had a bottle in one hand.

Aestith’s lips clamped closed, jaw tight.

“Open your mouth, little brother,” she told him.

His teeth gritted.

Descaronan dropped her spear. It rolled. With her newly freed hand, she pinched Aestith’s nose shut. Carefully, his lips parted. He couldn’t get enough air with his neck bent like this. He struggled, then gasped. Haeltania had been waiting for it; the bottle tilted to his lips and Descaronan held him still. It was swallow or drown; at first Aestith was determined to drown, to spit it out, but he couldn’t make his body obey by sheer force of will. He tried to push it out with his tongue, but the movement made him swallow droplets. It ran down his chin and trickled along his exposed neck. As the panic set in at drowning, his throat convulsed and he coughed. The liquid seared down his throat, burned his tongue. It dribbled down his chin. The pair held him until he had swallowed all of it.

His eyes watered. The poison worked quickly, spreading over him and leaving him weak and dizzy. Descaronan let go of his hair to hold his arm. He sagged gratefully forward, kneeling with his head low. Exactly as he should have been before any female drow. What had he been thinking all this time? That as a cleric he deserved a similar prestige? He was a naive idiot, no better than Tim really.

Descaronan’s fingers moved to the amber buttons on the riding dress. He almost let her. Let them disarm him, take everything. What did it matter? If this was what Lolth wanted, what did anything matter?

Xaiviryn had given him this.

Once, it had made him feel beautiful and powerful, like he was more than he was. Once, he had looked in the mirror and saw whatever Xaiviryn saw in him, whatever drew Arcedi to him. Whatever inspired Edajin or made Ryze respectful.

He didn’t feel that now. He felt weak and ugly, a stupid boy who naively thought he could be more.

Xaiviryn had been right to tell him he shouldn’t come down here. He had tried to warn him away, but Aestith hadn’t listened. He should have. He wished he could tell him…

How dare they?

How  _ dare _ his sisters do this to him! He was a cleric, and if Lolth saw fit to give him this power, he refused to surrender it. Let Lolth take it from him if that was her wish, but if the magic still came at his call, it  _ wasn’t _ her wish.

He slammed his elbow back into Descaronan’s stomach. She jerked, the wind driven from her. Aestith pitched forward, pushed himself to one side and came to his feet. He held out his hands. If Lolth had abandoned him, he shouldn’t be able to cast spells. If she had abandoned him, he would submit to whatever his sisters desired of him. If she hadn’t, he would know.

He prayed, and cast.

Lolth watched.

The deep, untouched darkness in the gaps in the tiled mosaic gathered like a swarm of spiders, coalescing, then broke and scattered. An indistinct figure, four times Aestith’s size, loomed over them. Only a shield, emblazoned with the symbol of Lolth, and a polished sword were visible. Aestith ducked behind it. He heaved, desperately trying to catch his breath.

Haeltania ran toward him. The sword swung, heavy and hard. It caught her in the side, and she kept going. Aestith unslung his shield and barely met a blow from her mithril mace. Her other hand swung the viper whip. Fangs pierced his skin, poison seeped into him, mingling with that already in him. He felt sick.

The dress--that beautiful dress--seemed to drain some of it, and he was able to fight it off.

The priestess called, “The Trial of Lolth must be on the dais.”

Haeltania hesitated, and moved back, up the stairs. Aestith swung as she passed. His rapier caught her, the thin blade weaving between the chain. The fire from the gauntlets spilled down the blade and splashed over her.

She moved away from it, to the other side of the dais. She looked blurry.

Slowly, Aestith followed, until he was just within range, and made a new summon. Spectral spiders, called out of some abyss, rushed from the shadows around Aestith and converged on Haeltania. They swarmed beneath her armor, biting. She shivered and reached for another flask on her belt. She downed the contents. Her overconfident smile gleamed with victory.

He couldn’t hope to melee with her. The blow with the rapier had been a fluke, and he wasn’t confident in the swing of his arm. He felt sick and weaker than he had ever been. He had to keep using spells. A floating dagger appeared behind Haeltania. Aestith whispered a command and it plunged down toward her. The blade caught in her mithril and glanced aside. He swore.

“I see you’ve learned some tricks while you were on the surface, little brother.” Haeltania stepped back to him. The sword from the summoned guardian swung. It cleaved into her another time. She did not stop. Her mace came down hard on Aestith’s shield. His weakened legs buckled.

He fell back, tumbled down the dais. He could leave the guardian there and try to run. What use was this farce to him? He stumbled to his feet. Descaronan must have seen the way he eyed the door; she stepped between him and the exit. With a stout arm, she shoved him roughly forward. He stumbled over the steps and fell. The guardian struck Descaronan and she skirted back.

Haeltania closed the distance between them, the spiders piercing her tender skin. The guardian hit her, but she kept going. She struck with the whip. It fell down on his back, sharp and stinging with poison, not so dissimilar to when she had hit him when he was a child.

He laughed, and it seemed to enrage her. Her blows came down harder, and he continued to laugh, because she didn’t  _ know _ . She didn’t realize that this was exactly the sort of thing that he and Xaiviryn got up to. The poison, the arm wielding it, and the circumstances were the only difference. She didn’t know the reasons he had antagonized his sisters into hitting him when he was younger. She didn’t know the reasons he had stopped doing it.

If she only did, she may have stopped.

The priestess repeated, “The Trial must be on the dais.”

Haeltania backed away to the other side again, reluctantly. Aestith could not have seen her to hit her as she retreated out of range of both of his summons. He struggled to his feet and climbed the stair. There was no escape. Did he want one?

He braced himself, ready for her next attack. The wounds bled and he whispered a prayer to heal himself.

As if out of spite and anger at his power, she threw one of her flasks. Aestith ducked and it sailed past. It hit the tile floor and the acid corroded the mosaic. He hoped she had paid for it. By the sour look on the priestess’s face, this had not been part of the bargain.

Aestith’s prayers protected him and he moved onto the dais. The spiders swarmed back over her. Her painted lips sneered and she clipped the mace to her belt. “You think you can save yourself with petty tricks, little brother?”

Did she not know? Did she look at his spells and not realize them for what they were?

From a pouch, she unfurled a scroll. She spoke the words, words he knew. The spell washed over him. He strained for but a moment to hold on to his magic as it threatened to be stripped from him, then it ebbed like the tide. He laughed, shrugging off its effects like a mantle; his were too strong to dispel like that.

Rage flashed in her eyes. He was bloodied and hurt, but he was winning, despite everything she had done. He grinned. “Does it make you feel incompetent, sister, knowing all you did to ensure your victory, and seeing it all fade away?”

She raised her crowned head high. One of the giant spiders descended from the ceiling on a thread. Its legs wrapped almost lovingly around her and it hoisted her upwards.

Aestith couldn’t stay below her; he was too easy a target and none of his active effects would hit her. In his weakened state, he didn’t trust his crossbow, but if he could continue to put every effort into dodging her attacks, the spirit guardians should whittle her down to a manageable piece.

The dress had been a beautiful gift. He leapt onto one of the many spidersilk strands and walked up it. She had not expected that; she grabbed another potion. He readied himself to leap to another strand.

She uncorked the bottle and swallowed its contents. Then she exhaled flame.

It burned the webs around him and he was caught in it, nothing to hold onto, nowhere to go. The fire consumed the webs.

He fell.


	31. Chosen

Aestith landed hard on his back, the wind knocked from his lungs. Everything hurt and he had to blink his vision back. He wanted to vomit. His eyes focused on Haeltania’s smirk.

He was going to die.

This was how he died. He would die, far away from everything that mattered, and close to it at the same time. He would die alone, as everyone did. He would die in Haeltania’s first sacrifice to Lolth, as was the fate of males. He took a cold kind of comfort in that his life would end with Lolth, that the sacrifice would mean a victory for his family.

His foolish cohorts in the tunnels would die or be enslaved. They shouldn’t have come. What had they hoped to accomplish, really? What had Aestith thought he could accomplish? He had become too cocky. He should have hit her with spells. Should have done any number of other things, and now he was suffering those consequences. What did any of it even matter, if he were so weak that he could not protect himself? If he were truly Lolth’s Chosen, he would have survived.

Aestith had merely been deceived.

Haeltania taunted, “Now we shall see who Lolth’s Chosen is.”

Hearing her voice his thoughts aloud enraged him. All the taunts, the barbed jibes, and the mockery all the way here. Then she had poisoned him, because somewhere in her mind, she knew she couldn’t have won otherwise. She had every advantage against him already, and she couldn’t have won without poisoning him.

He smiled, the bleak gallows humor smile of one already condemned. “Yes. We shall.” He raised his left arm and brought the back of his gauntlet down hard against the dais. The jewel shattered.

Smoke and fire poured from the jewel, twisting into a shape three times Aestith’s meager height. The fire formed into the indistinct burning shape of the trapped elemental inside. Aestith didn’t care if it attacked him, so long as it attacked Haeltania first.

He lay bleeding beneath the billowing smoke and bright light of the fire, a dark grey and black shape, like discarded ashes. The spiders backed away into their webs. The males in the room scrambled from the light. Descaronan flinched. Haeltania covered her eyes in pain. The priestess endured. Only Aestith did not flinch. The sunlight was worse.

He climbed to his feet. Blood ran down his temple. He tasted it on his lip. “Kill her,” he whispered.

The elemental swiped at Haeltania. She cringed away from the light, retreating back into the webs. Its other hand plunged in after her. The webs caught fire. She leapt down, past it, poised to strike and end Aestith’s echoing laughter.

As she came down, the Guardian struck. Once. Hard. It threw off her descent and cast her sprawling on the dais. She rolled, and was still. The mace fell from her limp hand. The priestess’s eyes roved over the dais to settle on Aestith.

“Lolth’s Chosen, your sisters are yours to do with as you please,” she said.

He reached for the sacrificial dagger, hidden under the riding dress. He kicked Haeltania onto her back. Her eyes fluttered open, grey without infrared. They had the same eyes. The same dark grey skin.

Her hair was singed with the fire, the curls limp. She was bleeding under the armor. Despite her wounds, she was unquestioningly beautiful.

Aestith knelt over her face. Her eyes widened in growing horror. He brought the dagger down into her right eye. Bone broke and splintered. Muscle tore and the soft organ of her brain split. He wrenched the dagger back in a spray of blood and bits of brain. He turned on Descaronan.

She gripped her spear.

He stepped from what remained of Haeltania. “I expected this from her, so blinded by her own greed that she cannot see what is before her. But you, who so rarely care for anything as much as the tangible, what you can hunt or kill--how do you not know when you looked at me what and who you are looking at? Your willful ignorance and pride have led you astray.” He spit blood. “You brought this on yourself.” He turned from her and motioned to the fire elemental. “Kill her.”

The creature fell upon her. He heard the fighting as he incuriously plucked the remaining vials from Haeltania. The priestess had already collected her whip, but he assumed the rest had been his sister’s. He looked over the mace. It had proven itself inferior in her hands, but she was never a fighter. What could she have truly hoped to accomplish? He took it. He pried the bloodied corpse out of the mithril. It had not done any good for her, in the end, but perhaps it could serve him in some capacity.

He looked back to watch Descaronan fall, burning into a heap. She twitched fitfully and stilled. He descended the dais toward her, removing something from his bag as he did. He knelt beside her and touched the diamond to her forehead. The diamond crumbled to dust, and slowly, her lungs rattled with a breath. She gasped, coughed.

“I could have left you dead,” Aestith whispered. Her gray eyes rolled to meet his. It may have been the first time either had really looked at one another, Aestith because he had never been allowed to look at her face directly, and Descaronan because she had never cared.

She coughed, choked. She shivered in pain from her wounds and her eyelids fluttered. She slipped into unconsciousness. Aestith rose and slowly turned back to the dais.

Matron Ter'resa called, “Aestith Rix, I grant you free passage through my domain.”

He nodded that he had understood, but he had no words to give her. He settled for, “Thank you.”

High Priestess Ter'resa instructed him through the last parts of the ceremony. Despite his poisoned state, he was intent and dedicated.

A nod. “Concentrate.” The high priestess took the circlet from Haeltania’s head. In both hands, she lowered it to Aestith. The metal was cold and light. It fit as if it had been made for him, instead of his sister--though he reasoned that this was because they were, well, siblings.

He shivered. The incense was so thick his eyes burned and he could not smell the blood. The slaves had cleared the bodies, but they had to wait to clean the blood.

Aestith inhaled deeply, and his vision swam. His knees hurt from kneeling and his legs were numb. A tiny spider dropped down from the ceiling and landed in his hair.

Lolth’s voice, just as he remembered it.  _ Well done. _

He bowed his head.

_ I offer you a gift. I would grant you the honor of being fully female. _

His hands shook so hard that he gripped his knees to keep them still.  _ Queen of Spiders, I have and will devote myself to you fully, but I must decline, for my state of body is my struggle, and I cannot have it undone. _

_ A wise choice. I will grant you another boon. _

The spider crawled down his cheek, over his neck and rested right below his clavicle, where he might plunge the sacrificial blade. The spider spread over him. It burned, scorched. He squirmed and his back arched as if a brand had been placed against his skin. Sweat broke out of his body. His teeth gritted to hold back the growing scream. It ceased and he touched his chest, expecting to feel burnt and smoking skin. It was smooth. He removed the steel mirror from his pack and from the light of the fire elemental, he looked at the mark. It looked like a brand, as if Lolth had taken a brand of a spider and stamped it onto his flesh. The mark did not tear or bleed, but somehow it smelled like burnt flesh.

Matron Ter'resa said nothing, already preoccupied with her own matters.

The circlet was light, made of mythril. It felt heavier when he wore it, bearing down with the weight of what it meant.

Still dizzy from the poison, he pulled himself to his feet and toward the door. He didn’t know where he really wanted to go, but what would be his temple would be a good start.

To Amalette, he Sent,  _ I pray the loss of Haeltania was worth my ascension. _

The rubies in the circlet caught the light of the fire elemental and gleamed. Some things were exactly as they appeared.

#

It was almost relieving to see Skullport again. Aestith was already looking forward to crawling under a blanket with a bottle of wine, and would have gone directly to the fortress, except for the fifteen crossbows pointed at the party. The Xantorim stood on the second floor of the city and the party looked up at them. A familiar wizard leaned, grinning at them, over the rail.

“You have something that belongs to me,” he said in a terrible cliche.

“Who are you?” Eilora asked.

“My name is Hazim.” By the expression on his face, he fully expected the name to strike terror into their hearts as their minds became overshadowed with recollection. The party, instead, looked at one another and shrugged.

“Could you be more specific?” Aestith called back.

He scowled. “You have stolen my property.”

They were silent. Kairon shifted from one foot to the other and sighed. “Could you be  _ more _ specific?”

Hazim stared blankly at the group for a moment. “The bloodmoss. I know you have it.”

“What bloodmoss?” Dee said.

He sighed and motioned to one of the crossbowmen. The man grabbed a sack and upended it. Something fell and landed hard with a sound like cracked bone in front of the party. It rolled.

It was a half-rotted human head. Flies buzzed around it. Aestith could not easily distinguish one human face from another, but Eilora gasped, “Oh, holy shit, that’s Monkey.”

“Just give me what is mine, and I will be on my way.”

The party eyed the crossbows. Dee whispered, “I can get out of this.”

Aestith’s eyes flicked around the room. “There are a few spells I could cast to aid our escape.”

“I don’t back down. And I don’t run,” Kairon sneered.

Nix whispered, “I can DImension Door with someone.”

Tirowan nodded. “I can cast Invisibility and get out.”

“What are the odds he has Counterspell,” Kairon pointed out.

Aestith looked back up at the man. He didn’t want to be hunted by the Xantorim too. He didn’t need this, and the bloodmoss had really been nothing but trouble since they first encountered it. He sighed, and reached for his satchel. Nix stepped forward. “You must have us mistaken for someone else,” he Suggested.

Hazim blinked and frowned, brow wrinkled in confusion. “Yes… I…”

One of the crossbowmen fired once. Another fired. A third. Three bolts hit Nix in rapid succession. Nix dropped, unconscious. Aestith knelt to Stay the Dying. He hissed, “What are we doing? Decide quickly.” He worked as the others discussed, carefully extracting the crossbow bolts, inspecting for poison. They were wickedly barbed, and difficult to remove.

“We can take them,” Kairon insisted.

Aestith scowled, wrenched out the second bolt. “Our sorcerer is down. I’m poisoned and unwell. The rest of you might be all right, but we’re not.”

“You should have mentioned you were poisoned,” Kairon complained, then gripped Aestith’s shoulder. Aestith shivered in relief as the weakness faded. It was easier to remove the bolts when he didn’t feel like, at any moment, he might vomit into the wounds and he could see straight.

“I will give you one last chance,” Hazim said. “All I want is my property.”

Eilora shifted from one foot to the other. “Guys, this is the guy who tortured a cat.”

Tirowan added, “And is apparently well-connected. I don’t think we should wish to cross him.”

Aestith rose. From the satchel, he removed the small trunk of bloodmoss. This had been his fault. He had opened the trunk a few days ago, and Hazim had likely been scrying. It could have even gone back farther; the Piece had taken some of the bloodmoss too, and a few inquiries would have given away Aestith’s name. It could be any number of things, really. He just wanted to be rid of it by now. It wasn’t worth keeping.

He dropped the trunk on the ground. Hazim gave a leering grin. “I’m glad one of you sees reason.” He nodded to one of the hirelings. The man holstered the crossbow and descended the ladder down. He picked up the crossbow again and stood in front of the box. “Open it,” he said.

Aestith handed him the key. As the man took it and knelt to open it, Aestith’s eyes widened as he remembered--the candle. That damned candle.

The box opened, and by some fortune, the candle had rolled under the bag of bloodmoss. The man opened the bag, then pulled the drawstring. He nodded to Hazim and shut the box, twisted the lock. Two more men descended the ladder to help carry the box.

Aestith could have taken the candle back at any point, but why? He had no use for it, and keeping it in the trunk would be more trouble than it was worth. He let it go, and only felt terribly glad to see it all gone.

The rest of the party grumbled and complained on the way to fortress, bitched about how Aestith was supposed to have sold it to his sister, which made the priestess laugh bitterly as he slipped through the door. Aestith replied, “I killed her.”

He asked Felrax if he could borrow a mortar and pestle, which was freely given. He crushed the remaining diamond with it and sprinkled the dust over Cakecake.

“Aestith, what are you doing to my badger?” Eilora said, alarm edging into her voice.

“Saving it,” he muttered. He touched the badger’s mangy fur, salty with Eilora’s dried tears. The spell restored Cakecake’s mind and the honey badger woke. It blinked its slow, dopey eyes and turned to look at Eilora. It licked her hand. She sobbed and fell upon the creature, holding it close as she wept. Aestith left before she attempted to hug him.

#

Haeltania had been a necessary loss to his family. He accepted that. Killing and reviving Descaronan had been unnecessary, but he thought it did serve as a justifiable lesson to her.

He should be happy right now, but he only felt empty and lost. He should be basking in his own victory. Instead, he had curled onto the pallet in his room in the fortress with a bottle of cheap wine, and was drinking alone.

Aestith had been raised male, for everything that meant. One of the things firmly ingrained into male drow was that they are never to harm a woman. The act was punishable by death.  _ He  _ had killed his  _ sister _ . The highest caste of male were still as nothing to the lowest caste of female. Yet he had killed her anyway. More puzzling, it was accepted and condoned.

It felt wrong, as if he had temporarily escaped justice and punishment, and it was coming for him.

It wasn’t, and that felt wronger.

Someone knocked on the door. Aestith had piled all the furniture in the room against the door to keep the others from bothering him.

“Aestith? You all right in there? You haven’t been looking so great,” Dee said.

“Go away, Dee,” he complained.

“Are you drunk?”

“Fuck off.”

She Misty Stepped into the room. She was greeted by Aestith, glowering hunched in a corner with a mostly consumed bottle and a book, in his underwear with a blanket thrown over his shoulders. “Aestith, are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been even more moody than usual since you got back.

“Leave me alone, Dee.”

“Aestith—”

He took a swig from the bottle and tucked the book under his arm. He snatched the satchel of holding from the floor and channeled the boon Lolth had given him. The mark on his chest heated. His body twisted, expanded, grew. New limbs sprouted and formed. Aestith, in the form of a giant spider, crawled onto the ceiling.

He supposed that Dee must have said something, but he, as a giant spider, couldn’t understand her or speak back anyway, which suited him fine. She tried again for a moment, then gave up and Misty Stepped back out of the room. He crawled down the wall and transformed back, hunched back in his corner to finish off the bottle.

#

Sailanshin dropped into a chair and rubbed his temples. Kai looked up, started to ask about what had happened, but when he saw his brother’s expression, he didn’t have to.

Sailanshin complained, “The kid was practically gift wrapped for them. Didn’t put up any kind of fight getting there. Nothing. I spoke to one of the slaves in the temple. They even got him to drink the poison. Especially made for him. They only failed to strip his armor, but Haeltania had better armor, better weapons, a priestess’s circlet. It shouldn’t have particularly mattered.” His lips twisted into a frown. “And he…  _ wins _ . He won in a rigged fight.”

“Is he… A male can’t ascend to a priestess,” Kai gasped.

Sailanshin frowned. “Aestith is… Frankly, deformed. Imperfect. He isn’t entirely male. Certainly doesn’t dress as he should.”

Kai tried to remember what Aestih had been like in class, but he couldn’t. He had paid such little attention back then to anything but himself and his own studies. It was beneath him to even notice the boy. “But he prevailed. So he is worthy.”

“Worthy, yes, but…” Sailanshin shook his head. “Damnit.” He kicked a worn wooden table. It scooted against the rugged wood floor and he slammed a door as he passed into the next room.

Kai rolled the spellscroll in his hand, passing it back and forth between each palm. He had copied it from another wizard’s book some weeks back, with the intention of adding it to his own, but he had never found the time. There would always be time to copy the spell again, but there would never be a better time to use the spell than now.

Sailanshin was hurting, and it wasn’t just the loss of a lover, nor was it the frustration at her death and who had killed her; he was frustrated because of this town. There were several male drow paladins, and it frustrated him to see them. His jealousy made him cross. To see someone born male, imperfect and merchant class, ascend to the level of a priestess hurt him.

Kai could fix it. He could help, like Eilora had said.

#

Over breakfast, where Aestith sipped on more wine, the others seemed inclined to call the entire thing a wash and go back to Waterdeep. As loathe as he was to return to the surface, he did have a temple being built. And he was a priestess.

He began a mental tally of everything he would need and require. He should find some way to get an underground tunnel built too, so there was a path in the Underdark. How? A tunnel would have to be made, obviously. The first thing that occurred to him was to buy some slaves and have them begin, but then he would be stuck down here minding them while he needed to do other things. No, he needed a different way. Something a little more viable.

Haeltania had been right about a few things; he couldn’t handle slaves. To him, it was a troubling waste of resources. Drow worked slaves to death; they were cheap enough. After experiencing other cultures, however, Aestith had a different business model. If he paid them instead, they might be more expensive in the short term, but he wouldn’t have to watch them as closely, nor would he have to bother with punishment, feeding or housing them. If they were happier, it led to increased productivity, and was less stressful for him--this he had learned running the brothel; they paid their employees well and they would even get into bed with Xaiviryn out of his disguise, or defend their post against bugbears. Slaves did those things out of fear of punishment. The initial cost was balanced by being less stressful.

They could always be subjugated later. Aestith was of the opinion that he should be nice to others first, because he could always be cruel later and if he started with cruelty, they would never believe him if he weren’t. It may not be a traditional way of viewing things, but Aestith felt there was much to learn from the flow of water; the path of least resistance.

Since the Trial, his spells had been different. Slightly more potent, yes, but he had access to things he didn’t have previously, not merely the ability to polymorph into a spider at will, but other differences too. Not all of them were good, but he felt satisfied with what he had. For now.

“I need another drink,” Aestith muttered.

“You’ve been drinking since yesterday,” Dee commented.

“Have I? How can you tell?” He smirked, then excused himself and made his way out. Other drow gave him a wide berth as he walked, and averted their gaze. They made themselves suddenly scarce. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

He passed into the bar, and more than a handful quickly left, and others trickled out. He sat down, alone, mulling over his own life choices. He should shove the circlet in his bag so people could go back to ignoring him, but he didn’t know if that would even help, not with the mark on his breast.

He must have spent too long wallowing, because Eilora, Dee, and Nix came to find him and slid into the booth with him. He tried to ignore them, but they kept talking about future plans, and what to do. He sipped the wine, and stared at the dark out of the booth as he contemplated moving to an empty one.

“Aestith, what’s  _ wrong _ ?” Dee demanded.

Aestith downed the rest of the ale and shoved it back. “My sister is dead. I’ve personally seen four of my sisters die. What  _ isn’t _ wrong?”

“How many sisters do you have?” Eilora asked.

Aestith wished he had drank the ale more slowly. “Seven older than me, though I only knew six of them. Two younger, but they’re dead.”

“Brothers?”

“None.” His hand clenched.

Dee considered. “So you’re the eighth daughter? Is that special to drow?”

His hands shook and a lump caught in his throat. “Is that what you see?” He looked up and swallowed. “Yes, it’s significant.”

“Well…” Dee shifted. She tried to think of a delicate manner of phrasing. “You don’t seem to be coping well. Are you sure you don’t need help?”

“Perfection doesn’t need help.”

Eilora rolled her eyes. “No one is perfect, Aestith.”

Aestith stared at her. “I was born perfect. It’s everyone else that’s wrong.”

His eyes must have gone red, because Dee said quickly, “No one is questioning that you’re perfect, Aestith.”

He snorted, and started to move from the booth. He jerked back. Kai stared back at him, wide-eyed and shocked. Kai had grown. He was nearly as beautiful as his brother, and unmistakable. Aestith had sparred with, and been beaten by, Kai enough times to recognize staring up at him.

Kai’s eyes flicked towards Eilora and his face flushed, blood rising to it. Aestith’s lips curled in disgust.  _ Her _ ? He was enamored with a wood elf? Absolutely repulsive. If Aestith had been sober, he might have sought to punish Kai for it.

Kai smiled. Eilora groaned. He said, “I fixed it. I helped someone. He was hurting, and I fixed it so he won’t now.”

Eilora stared, almost afraid to ask. “What do you mean?”

His smile widened. “This way. Come and see.”

Eilora moved as if to rise, then shook her head. “No, I’m good. Thanks.”

Aestith glowered. “Kai, what have you done?”

Kai looked back at Aestith, as if he suddenly remembered that he existed. “I… Well, you see… Sailanshin—”

“What did you do?” Aestith hissed as he rose to his feet. He was shorter than Kai, yet still the other backed up a pace. “Show me what you’ve done.”

Kai stared at the circlet, then his gaze dropped. He turned and Aestith followed him. Kai led him down a series of streets and down an alley. They descended a set of stairs and into a building. Something stalked in the darkness. Aestith reached for a weapon and Kai said, “No, don’t. It’s Sailanshin. Don’t.”

Aestith stilled as the creature stopped. His jaw dropped. “Kai, what have you done?”

The kamadan sat, watching them, unaware of what had been done to it. The air felt stuffy, as if it might suffocate him. Aestith drug Kai out of the room and shut the door. He hauled back his fist and hit him. “What have you done?” he demanded. He shoved him against the wall. “What have you  _ done _ ?”

Kai smiled bleakly. “Eilora said I’d never helped anyone. Said I was terrible. I wanted her to notice me. I wanted her to see that I could do that.”

Aestith hit him again, because it made him feel better. “You are an idiot,” he snapped. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “An idiot.” Aestith looked at the cat, and back at Kai. He could barely control his rage. He tried to Dispel it, and failed. He tried any number of other things, but couldn’t manage it. Aestith took a deep breath. “I’m taking Sailanshin. I have to try to give him his mind back.”

The cat snorted. Its tail twitched. Even the snakes glared at Kai. Aestith stilled. “Sailanshin? Do you understand me?”

Sailanshin slunk toward him and laid on his belly, intent. Aestith knelt in front of him. “Sailanshin, if you understand me, raise your right paw.”

The paw rose, hovered deliberately, and dropped down.

Aestith rounded on Kai and slammed his fist into the wizard’s face. Kai stumbled back. “You can’t even get True Polymorph right!” He hit the idiot wizard again. “What have you done? He’ll die in only a few years! He should have longer! You’ve banished him to the form of a beast--what have you done?”

Kai’s eyes watered. “It was for Eilora. I thought… She said I had never done anything good, to help someone. She likes cats…”

Aestith shook with rage. “You damned idiot!” The cat growled in agreement. Aestith paced about the room. It had to be fixed. It had to be corrected. It just had to be. “What else about the spell did you get wrong?”

Kai looked down. “I don’t know.”

Aestith rounded on him. “You have to fix it. You have to undo what you’ve done.”

“I can’t. It’s permanent.”

“I don’t care--fix it. Change him back.”

He looked at his brother. “I could get another scroll. Transform him into a drow again, but it wouldn’t be the same.”

Aestith resisted the urge to hit the other this time. “Not good enough,” he snarled. “You took what was already perfect. Why?” He glared. “This isn’t about Eilora at all, was it? You’re a shit wizard, Kai, and a fairly good swordsman, but Sailanshin was perfect, wasn’t he? Eilora is a poor excuse.”

Kai shook his head, wide-eyed. “No. No, it was Eilora. I…” His eyes softened. “She… She is unlike everything I’ve ever known. And that’s beautiful.”

Sailanshin’s ears flicked back and teeth bared. Aestith agreed with him, but he said, “Kai. You need to fix this. You can’t bring Sailanshin home like this.”

“I… wasn’t going to. I wanted to be near Eilora.”

“Eilora lives on the surface.”

He tilted his head. “So?”

Sailanshin jumped. The drow wizard hit the floor with the weight of a full-grown kamadan bearing down on him. The snakes hissed and snapped near the drow’s face. The cat slowly moved off of him. Kai shook, scrambled back. The kamadan gave a casual swipe of a paw at him that knocked Kai off balance. 

Aestith sighed. “Eilora doesn’t matter, Kai. What matters is undoing what you’ve done.” He paced as he thought. Was there any magic at all that could fix this? A powerful enough wizard could probably dispel it.

Kai deserved to die for what he had done to Sailanshin, and Sailanshin deserved the justice that would come with his death. Aestith thought of how he had killed his sister. It had felt good at the time, but only at the time. There would be little to gain from Kai’s death, really. But there could be some positive from his continued existence.

Aestith stepped between them. “Kai. You can’t return home without Sailanshin.” He paused. “For that matter, what are you even doing here?”

Kai looked at Sailanshin, who flopped onto his side, as if to say he didn’t care. Kai hesitated, then blurted, “We escorted your sisters.”

Aestith glanced back at Sailanshin. That made sense. “I’m surprised Haeltania convinced you to.”

“She didn’t,” Kai admitted. “We were ordered to, by Lady Ondalia.”

Aestith’s heart leaped. She was still alive? All of his childhood fantasies of her began to flower in his mind. He shoved them back. “That complicates things. We probably have some time then. Descaronan may come looking for you, but she isn’t going anywhere for at least a while.” He paused in thought, then lifted his head. “Kai. I can potentially fix the mess you caused, but I will require something in return.”

Kai flinched. “Yes?”

“This will be to your benefit as well.” He unfurled two maps on a table. Sailanshin curiously paced around to the other side and lifted himself onto his hind legs to look. Kai shuffled over to them. His posture was hunched, cowed even. Aestith pointed to the map. “On the surface, where I’ve been, I am building a temple to Lolth.” He touched a point on the first map, then moved to the other map. “I want you to excavate a tunnel to it.”

Blood drained from Kai’s face. “But I… That will take ages.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t have the spells to do it.”

Aestith smiled sweetly. “Get an umber hulk.”

“That’s no easy task! I can’t do things like that—”

“And I used to think you had everything.” He shook his head. “You’re a whiny, petulant brat.”

Kai looked from Aestith to Sailanshin, perhaps realizing that it would have gone better for him if they had decided to kill him after all. Kai looked back at the maps. “I need a moment to calculate where the tunnels should be.” He moved to a bag and plucked his own map from a pouch. Underdark maps were confusing to anyone who wasn’t accustomed to them, but they were more detailed than surface maps. Kai used a blank page in his wizard’s book to calculate. Aestith paced about the room. Sailanshin sat, and watched.

Kai paused. “How far along is construction now?”

“Not very.”

More writing, then, “How deep will it be?”

Aestith gave him the estimates and Kai nodded, going back to more scratching of the quil.

Would Xaiviryn even help?

He could always ask Tirowan--she wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to show up a drow incapable of doing it themselves--but he was loathe to go to her. Fact of the matter, he was loathe to bring Sailanshin. He didn’t want the other to know where he lived. He didn’t want to put Sailanshin through the humiliation of running away to the surface.

He stopped. “Sailanshin, your brother will still need you to protect him. When the tunnel is built, I can bring a wizard—” He glared at Kai. “--a real drow wizard to help you.”

The ears flattened.

“It would mean you wouldn’t have to go to the surface, and Kai needs you anyway.”

An ear pricked forward. The tail swished, as if irritated with all the back and forth.

Aestith sighed. “I realize it’s frustrating, but the alternative would mean you coming with me to the surface, then sailing to reach another city to get to this wizard. Either way, I cannot help you immediately.”

The cat rose to all fours, then it knelt, front legs bent in a bow, the cat head and the snake heads down. It straightened. Sailanshin had submitted to the priestess’s desires.

Kai stopped his scribbling and moved to his Underdark map. He made a mark, then a series of them, then flipped to another blank page in his book to draw a rough sketch. When he finished, he set the book aside. “I know where to build it,” he said quietly.

Aestith nodded. “Good. I will do what I can to speed the construction from the surface.”

Kai looked up, an expression on his face like he wanted to whine about Eilora again. Aestith glared, and he shrunk back meekly. The cleric could not believe how idiotic and foolish Kai was. He had always seemed so perfect, the star pupil, good at everything he did. The truth was that Kai wasn’t any of that.

What did Kai see when he saw Aestith? Kai recognized him, clearly, but did he remember him from before? Was he surprised at how the awkward, spotted-skinned youth had grown? Or did Kai only see the priestess now?

His eyes flicked to Sailanshin, and remembered the bow. Aestith may have still been a child by the standards of their lifespan, but in many ways, he wasn’t. Drow mature faster than their distant fae-like elf cousins; they are forced into it. Aestith was a cleric, and had become a priestess, and the weight of what that meant wore on his shoulders like a lead mantle.

Kai obeyed him now out of fear and shame, and had to expect that Aestith would kill him if he failed. Sailanshin expected Aestith to be capable of correcting what had been done. Arcedi expected him to succeed in his accomplishments. Xaiviryn expected him to lead a temple.

Lolth expected him to spread her influence.

Aestith hoped he could live up to these expectations.

#

They tried to force their way back up through the Yawning Portal, which proved an arduous and difficult venture at best, and in due time, Nix had nearly died twice more, Eilora ended up surrounded by demons, Kairon used an expensive spell scroll to help her, and Aestith was hurt in the melee as well. They had little to show for it, save a few items Nix said would be equal to about half of the teleportation fee for the whole party.

They had a bit of debate on if they wanted to press on or not, then turned back to Skullport to simply teleport back out.

While the teleportation circle was being setup, Aestith removed the chainmail and put on the breastplate. Gingerly, he lifted the circlet from his head and carefully stowed it into his satchel.

The party returned to the brothel with lighter purses. Eilora considered it a minor victory, as the brief excitement kept her from growing bored. Dee and Tirowan gave Nix a tour of the facility. Aestith used the opportunity to occupy the washroom, much to the high elf’s displeasure.

Arcedi had left a note on the desk in his sloppy handwriting:  _ I took care of it. _ He probably meant the lead the guards had on the murders. Aestith breathed in relief.

When he was properly dressed again, Aestith stole away to visit his townhouse. He was disappointed to not find Arcedi, but his cat greeted him with a headbutt. He picked up Hallow and wandered into the pantry to check on the pixie. It seemed to still be alive, so he looked at his mushrooms. Some were ready to be harvested. A few had spored and could be planted. He set Hallow down and the cat pounced on a nearby toy. He sliced a piece of apple and carefully dosed it in the mushroom extract. He shoved the slice through the grate. A voice inside said, “Thank you.”

Aestith turned and shut the door. He carefully moved around the cramped furniture in the room. He had long ago blocked the windows. The door was locked. He removed his clothing piece by piece and hung it in the closet. He donned the circlet.

Aestith’s shrine was far from grand; it was clay, because moving around something stone was nearly impossible for him, and that had been difficult enough to obtain. But it fit in his satchel. He carefully removed it and shoved it into place. He got one of the porcelain bowls from the kitchen and a knife. Hallow followed him.

He cut along one wrist and bled into the bowl until he judged it had enough. He did not heal the cut.  He used his gathered blood to form a web on the floor. Hallow sat on the edge of it, watching. If the skeletal cat had disturbed the ritual, Aestith might have killed it.

He stepped around the web in dry spots on his toes as he placed the two shields dedicated to other gods in the circle. He left a bare space in the center and cast an inverse Magic Circle. The prepared holy water evaporated and powdered iron and silver turned to worthless rust. Hallow followed him to the pantry and he lifted the box. He tilted it so that it slid.

The pixie grunted, and mumbled some slurred complaint. He took the box into the Magic Circle. Hallow watched from the side as Aestith lit the incense. He prayed, on his knees, naked before the altar, then turned to the box. He didn’t have a key for it, so he settled for picking it, slowly, minding his time. There was no need to rush.

The lock gave and he set the tools aside. He opened the box. Inside the box was a fine wire mesh cage. At the bottom of the cage was a pixie, her clothes tattered and stained, pale with captivity, weak with underfeedings. She had eaten perhaps half of the apple slice by the time she got to the drug. She clutched her head, her legs tucked against her chest. She looked up at the dim light, and reached a hand toward it.

“Are you letting me out?” she asked.

Aestith kept his face from view and slid the wire cage from the box. He set the box down in the center of the web and carefully stepped over it to place the box outside of it. He trotted back to the altar. A spider dropped down on his bare shoulder. He unwound the wire pinning the mesh together. The fae turned, saw him. Her wings buzzed in fright and she tried to move away from his hand, and fell against the mesh, dizzy with the drug.

Aestith plucked her from the cage and tossed it aside. She struggled, her little fingernails scraping his skin. She kicked, then screamed. He laughed gently as he pinned her down.

She bit. Her tiny teeth broke his skin and he bled. He jerked in surprise, loosening his grip just enough for her to wriggle free. She slammed against the side of the Magic Circle, then gasped in terror. She whispered spells, stumbling over words. Aestith reached to grab her, too late. She was going to try to teleport out.

Hallow leaped. The cat, light without muscle or organ to weigh it down, sailed over the web, through the Magic Circle. It struck the fae down and pinned her, delicately, on one of the shields. The fae stared, and screamed in horror at the cat. She begged, pleaded, offered anything.

There was only one thing she could give.

Hallow kept a skeletal paw on her as Aestith plucked first one wing, then another, from her back. She screamed and cried as he performed the action. Another spider ran up Aestith’s leg. Blood ran down the pixie’s back. Hot tracks of tears marked her soiled face. He poised the dagger. The pixie was really too small to properly hurt.

Aestith whispered in Elvish, for nothing else was fit for prayer, “May I forever serve you, Lolth, my Queen.” The dagger plunged downwards. The tip bit into the pixie, severing her spinal cord and paralyzing her without killing her. Beneath her, the shield twisted and burned. The other shield split and blackened. A spider ran down his spine and dropped to the floor. More of them crawled from under the furniture, around the corners. They flowed over him, around Hallow. The cat stepped from the sacrifice, carefully as the spiders passed.

The spiders scrambled over the floor and dropped from the ceiling, converging on the sobbing, screaming pixie.

Aestith raised a hand and moved in the incantation of a spell. Silence suppressed the sounds of the pixie shrieking as the spiders bit, poisoned, consumed her like the insect she so emulated. Dozens, maybe hundreds of them; fast, hairy hunting spiders, slow weavers, trap makers.

The spiders left, crawling back to their corners and crevices. Aestith lifted himself from the web and picked up Hallow. A knock at the door made him jerk. He didn’t have time to dress. He cast about for a robe, but so many of his things were at the brothel. He shut the cat into the pantry. Another knock.

Then he remembered; he cast Disguise Self and, clad only in the circlet and a spell, went to the door.

He opened it only so far as the chain would allow. “Yes?” he said.

The guardsman paused. “I had reports of a scream?”

“I stubbed my toe.”

The guard tried to look past Aestith but couldn’t. “I have probable cause to search the premises.”

Aestith frowned. “Under what grounds?” he demanded.

“The scream. Please step aside.”

Sweat ran down Aestith’s back. One look at the circle, and Aestith would be arrested. Aestith gave an exaggerated sigh. “This is because I’m a drow, isn’t it. Look, I told you, I just—”

“Your neighbor said they heard screaming and voices.”

_ Shit _ . “Yes, sometimes, one’s voice becomes of a higher pitch when they are in pain.”

“Ma’am, please open the door.”

“Just a moment.” He shut the door. Then he smiled. He unlocked the chain and opened the door for the single guard. He shut it behind him, but did not lock it.

The guard looked at the door to the bedroom, found it locked. “I’ll need this opened.”

“Of course. Excuse me.”

Aestith whispered in Elvish, “Test me, Lolth.” Then, he whispered the spell, and cast. He caught the guard as he fell, but he was too heavy for Aestith to do any more than control his fall. He knelt beside the guard and said, “You explored every nook and cranny of the townhouse. The bedroom was perfectly ordinary and expected. The kitchen and pantry was in order, if a bit messy. The living room was in the process of tidying up, but you saw nothing outstanding, even if your hostess was a bit standoffish at times and a bit annoyed to have you, but you remember her as being cordial and polite all the same. You pet the hostess’s cat, a grey tabby. You headed toward the door after completing your inspection to your satisfaction, and felt dizzy from the heat of the day. Your hostess went to get you a cup of water.”

Aestith rolled the guard onto a rug and drug the rug toward the door. He rolled the guard off of the rug and moved the rug back. He went to fetch a copper cup of water and returned to the guard. The guard stirred on the floor. “What? Why am I here?” he demanded.

Aestith knelt beside him, offering the cup. “You were just leaving. Here.”

The guard frowned at the cup, then accepted it. “It really is quite a warm day in the sun.”

“And you in that hot uniform.”

He downed the water and handed the cup back to Aestith. He rose to his feet. “Yes. Must be the heat.” He smiled. “Well, thank you, ma’am. I see everything is in order.”  
Aestith nodded his head. “Thank you for your concern.” Aestith saw him out and locked the door. He sighed, leaning heavily against it. He swore several times and marched to the kitchen to let Hallow out. He cleaned up the ritual and washed himself, dressed. He prayed briefly, played with the cat for a time, quietly delighted at how clever a creature it was.

Eilora could keep her multitude of cats--so long as they were confined elsewhere than the brothel--Hallow was superior.

He dumped the shields into a rubbish heap and the desiccated skeleton into a river, in a small potato sack filled with rocks.

Arcedi had never experienced what it really was to be a drow. He hadn’t been raised correctly; his own ignorance made him annoying, but it made him who he was.

The priestess reflected on the drow in Skullport, the ones in the town near it. When Deekin had enticed the kobolds to play music, the other drow there acted as if they were in some kind pain, utterly hated it. When Aestith had interacted at all with the Matron Mother, or the drow in her domain, they were all deadly serious--their faces might crack if they smiled. Haeltania and Descaronan, too, had no sense of humor at all. A life without bad jokes and the ability to laugh at the absurd seemed incredibly bleak.

But Amalette wasn’t like that, not entirely. But Amalette had always been a little different from other drow. Amalette had never given him a response, which bothered Aestith only a little. Perhaps she was shocked, and had nothing to say to him. Perhaps she was angry and he might face her retribution one day, in one form or another.

Had Haeltania been right, in some ways? Had the surface changed Aestith so much?

There were notions he had that weren’t entirely  _ drow _ , and that bothered him. He felt like a slave was useful, but not worth the stress and risk of having them--and when money was available, he didn’t see anything wrong with just paying them to do the work. That wasn’t a drow mentality at all, but it was capitalistic and logical, so he wasn’t willing to concede ground on the point. Drow hid their flaws; Aestith didn’t want to--no, he didn’t think he was flawed. Others might see him as deformed, but he  _ didn’t _ . Why hide? Except perhaps these infernal freckles.

His face heated. Arcedi had kissed each freckle on his skin. All the men and women Xaiviryn had been with, and the male still thought Aestith was beautiful.

The sunlight lit the street, glinting off the puddles and wet cobblestone. The priestess flinched at the light, and tried to hurry back into a shaded street. Aestith would always hate it here. It wasn’t only the weather, the wind, the horrifying open sky; it was the nonsensical culture. He didn’t belong here, and never would.

But he wasn’t sure he really belonged in the Underdark either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this chapter commiserated in art.
> 
> Here it is in all its gloriousness: https://imgur.com/6xdgYAw


	32. Lovers

The gambling hall was two stories and a basement. One would assume that the VIP lounge was on the second floor, where the well-to-do could look down on the lesser creatures below them, the way a child watched ants.

One would assume incorrectly; the upper floors were for business, and the basement had a more private hall.

Arcedi was making his way there, but he wasn’t on a time limit, and didn’t care to rush. He moved about the carpeted floor, looked in at the tables and quickly moved away. There were two bars, and the owner actually worked at the larger of them. The rumor was that she was dating Zelvier.

_ Who wasn’t these days? _

He wondered if it would be enough to dissuade Aestith, or at least make the cleric lose interest. Trouble was, Aestith wasn’t a jealous person by nature--and if Zelvier fucking every other whore in Waterdeep hadn’t driven Aestith away, what would really?

Arcedi didn’t hate Zelvier, not exactly. Zelvier paid well and always had interesting jobs for him. If he didn’t, Arcedi would not be here. But he wished Aestith would stay away from him; Zelvier tended to use people. It was what Drow did almost by instinct, and Arcedi knew he let Aestith use him, but he had set his boundaries before; Aestith was still in double digits in age and wasn’t yet good at advocating for himself. Aestith let Zelvier buy him out, and that irritated Arcedi.

He wanted to shake Aestith and remind him that he was a cleric, and he should not be bound to anyone, let alone Zelvier. Not that Aestith would listen. Aestith was blinded by the temple funds and a good lay if he didn’t have to contend with the other being bullheaded to boot.

Zelvier had his crew put pressure on Aestith, and the other, being overwhelmingly lonely and a child himself, of course bent to the pressure. What did Aestith see in the man?

Arcedi stuffed down his own jealousy. He had seen the way Aestith had looked at Zelvier. The cleric would never look at him that way--and that was fine--so long as he didn’t look at Zelvier that way. He was glad they were in different cities.  _ Aestith, you could have gotten into bed with anyone, why’d it have to be this jackass? _ He was almost glad that Zelvier had, as a cat coughed up a hairball, reluctantly mentioned to Aestith that he would contact the one paladin he knew on the surface. Arcedi had met Evyxes a time or two, several years past, and that the other would be wholly devoted to a priestess of Lolth over Zelvier did a great deal for the tension in his stomach.

He went up to Margarite and leaned against the bar. Her golden brown eyes flicked up. He couldn’t distinguish if she were really human. “I’m here to see Zelvier.”

A pause. “Well. He might be here.” She looked down at the glass she was drying.

He made a face, and said, “I have the package he ordered.”

Her eyes rolled toward him and some judgment passed. Instinctively and almost by self-defence, he talked. He laughed and made jokes, told her the story of how he arrived. Admittedly, it wasn’t an interesting one--not as interesting as some anyway, but he could find humor anywhere and the tale of the misery of the sailors who had to deal with him on the way here was amusing, to him at least. He wove it the way he usually did, in a nonlinear fashion with backtracking and stopping for exposition and too much detail in way of explanation. Her eyes glazed, and still he kept going. What he didn’t remember, he filled in with what he imagined it was supposed to be, a white thread of lies in a tapestry of the tale, so innocuous and sprinkled in that most would never notice it. People rarely ever did. He had learned a long time ago that if he simply kept talking, eventually people would break.

Perhaps to make him stop, she went to the swing door on the side of the bar and lifted the lock. He pushed past and opened the trapdoor. He would have left it open, but she shut it behind him. Not ominous at all.

He trotted down the stairs. Some paranoia itched in the back of his brain, something he attributed to his nature, the parts of him that were Drow. He ignored them, even when they screamed at him to turn back around, to listen to the bits of him that were raised by moon elves and go play elsewhere.

What could Zelvier really give him that was worth the cost of the package anyway? Fencing it would be next to impossible, so it would have to be broken down a bit. It wouldn’t make it worth it.

The stairs led into a narrow hall. An open door at the end of the hall had a beaded curtain with little bells at the end of each strand. It was impossible to move through it without making noise.

Arcedi steeled himself and marched through. He posed dramatically and was a little disappointed that Zelvier barely even glanced at him. The man was seated at a table that was clearly meant to have either food or a game on it, instead of whatever paperwork he was doing. Zanisernix sat on one side of the table.

The other tables in the room were open, airy. It wasn’t at all what drow ordinarily liked, despite that it had been made, more or less, specifically for drow. And Zelvier doubtless did it on purpose, forcing them to mingle. The crew had had a large payout recently, from the heist, and most of them had vacated to go spend it. The few who didn’t bother played at cards or dice, mostly drinking with an occasional plate of something.

Arcedi wove his way slowly around the room and plopped into the seat opposite Zelvier. Before the other had quite acknowledged him, Arcedi launched into a long greeting and an even longer description of how he acquired the package, full of too many details in some areas and too few details in others. He backtracked consistently to go back and illustrate further detail, skipping ahead to more interesting parts, then realized he needed to describe the less interesting ones so the others made sense. Halfway through this, Zelvier held up a single finger for silence. Arcedi internally debated ignoring it, then slowed to a silence of sorts.

Zelvier said, “I’m glad to see you were successful. Where is it?”

Arcedi dropped the leather-wrapped package on the table. “So like I was sayin—”

Zanisernix pulled the package across the table and cut the cord with a knife. He opened it enough to peer inside, then flipped the leather back over it before he pushed it toward Zelvier. The other pried the leather apart. He propped his chin in one hand and lifted one of the black diamonds, as big as a thumbnail, pinched between finger and thumb.

Zelvier looked at Zanisernix and tilted his head. The other’s gaze flicked toward Arcedi. His lips seemed to curl into a sneer at the leucistic drow, then he got up and left the room.

Arcedi made a face. “Now what do you want?”

“Well, I imagine you want payment.”

Arcedi glanced at the diamonds. “That would do.”  
Zelvier raised one white eyebrow. “Do you mean to imply that that’s where you’d like to start?”

“I want to know what you intend with Aestith.”

Zelvier frowned. “Must I ‘intend’ anything?” His lips curved into a slanted grin. 

He leaned back in the chair. “Aestith is powerful and cleric by right, but he is far too young for you to be interested in him, innit? You’re over twice my age. You can’t possibly want anything more than to manipulate a young cleric already eager to get into bed with you.”

Zelvier’s face was unreadable. “Are you really trying to make sure my intentions are pure? Moon elf indeed.”

The tattooed drow shook his head. “I thought you were shrewder than that, but maybe I’ve misjudged you. No. I want you to leave Aestith alone. I only request that you don’t interfere. Let Aestith run his temple. A cleric needs no guidance from a wizard.”

“Or a rogue.”

Arcedi smirked. “But a cleric has uses for a paladin, don’t they?”

Zelvier’s eye twitched, the barest hint of discomfort, and Arcedi’s smirk widened to a grin.

Zanisernix returned with a small box, which he set on the table. “Your payment.”

Zelvier waved a hand. “Thank you.” Zanisernix frowned, but slunk away. “I’d never impede a priestess.”  
Arcedi’s lips pressed together. “Then stop trying to put the Aestith on the rails you’ve made and let them go their own way.” He flipped the box open, then shut it.

“You spend too much time playing music. All the metaphors have gone to your head. Thank you for the diamonds, Arcedi.” He looked at them, and his expression seemed to soften, ever so slightly. “Aestith will look lovely in them.”

Arcedi’s fingers clenched under the table. Zelvier hadn’t heard a damned word he had said. “Aestith never needed you.”  
“No. He wants me. And he wants the temple.” He held up one hand to produce a dim light that made the diamonds sparkle. “I see so clearly what Aestith could be if he allowed himself to become it.” He sighed and glanced at Arcedi. Something wistful caught in the other’s eyes. Arced’s heart pounded, and he couldn’t explain why he so suddenly wanted to flee. He didn’t want to hear whatever Zelvier was going to say next.“He’ll be so powerful, Arcedi. I only wish for him to succeed.”

_ You only give Aestith what he wants, not what he needs.  _  He forced himself to stay still. “He’ll fly farther if you release him from your tether.”

He snorted. “Aestith is on no tether. If I happen to point him in a direction on occasion, it is his business if he wishes to follow it. He certainly didn’t listen to me when I told him not to go back into the Underdark.”

Arcedi tilted his head. “You told him not to go?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I wanted him to stay, for admittedly selfish reasons. I thought that funding the temple would keep him on the surface and make him give up the silly notion of contacting his sisters.”

Arcedi stilled. “Having a cleric you can manipulate is certainly a benefit to you.”

Zelvier frowned. “I don’t deny I want that.” He dropped the diamond back with the others. “Just as I cannot deny that I would want Aestith even if he were not a cleric.”

“The orgy pits aren’t enough for you?”

Zelvier shrugged, unbothered by Arcedi’s petulant jab. “You can continue to be Aestith’s paramour. I care not, and I’ve no interest in monogamy myself. So don’t be concerned.”

Arcedi frowned. “I keep telling you that that isn’t—”

“It is, and you hide it poorly. You’re jealous, and it’s made worse because Aestith isn’t perfectly to your taste so you can’t give him everything he wants the way I’m only too happy to.” 

A white brow over a pale pink eye arched. “Are we projecting here?”

“I am not concerned about you.” A pause. “Or my cousin.”

“As you say.” Arcedi opened the box and removed the calfskin bag inside. It was heavy with platinum coins. He almost dropped it on the table, but the act of pettiness would be one he’d live to regret. He took the money and left.

Zelvier’s jealousy might be all the leverage he could ask for. Aestith would need a paladin over a wizard, and the tighter Zelvier tried to hold Aestith, the more likely Aestith would be to flee. Zelvier would never be jealous of Arcedi, but he was concerned about the priestess meeting Evyxes. And from what Arcedi knew of the paladin, and of the cleric, their union would not even be unlikely. Zelvier may even attempt to drive Evyxes back to Luskan, and Aestith would retaliate. The young cleric needed to learn from Evyxes, and from Zelvier, but he had to learn to be independent and rely on no one, and owe them nothing.

Ryze caught up to him before he had quite reached the stairwell. The disguise slipped on as they left the trapdoor. The other said, “I saw what happened.”

“Hard to miss.”

Ryze rolled his eyes. “You don’t understand us, Arcedi. You were raised by faeries.” He made a face. “Some things are innate, but many are not, so I think you’ve missed a few things.”

They passed the bar and moved onto the gambling floor. “Like what?”

Ryze sighed. “I’ve been with Eiranish for five years. Do you think we love each other?”

“Drow aren’t capable of it.”

The younger drow laughed. “That’s not true. We lust after one another, enjoy the other’s company, and are affectionate to one another all the same, but love is a weak, in its nature selfish, emotion that would require purging, so the inclination among our kind is to cull one’s own weaknesses. Or, short of that, destroy what caused the feeling.”

“That’s ridiculous. If you ignore the emotion, it will surely fade.”

“Does it, Arcedi? When Drow are amorous, we seek to dominate the object of our affections so we gain control over what has gained control over us. It’s part of why my house was destroyed.”

He raked his fingers through his hair. The loose hair fell through his hand and the braids thumped. “Even your personal lives become political.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Perhaps, but these affections are so rarely returned, it can really end no other way. Suffice it to say, mutual love between drow is so rare as to be all but unheard of.” He reiterated, “Eiranish and I do not love each other.”

Arcedi made a face. “I’m devoted to Aestith, and to his cause.”

“We all are. We have to be. He’s quite possibly the first, or one of very few, Lolthite clerics on the surface,” Ryze said, and tilted his head back toward the way they had come. “I only meant to point out, you don’t understand us--even such simple concepts. Aestith’s presence can be a threat to Zelvier and his position, because of that. He’s courting Aestith to eliminate that threat in a way that might be mutually beneficial, rather than a conflict that’s bound to end in blood.”

“It’s idiotic.”  _ Like all politics, especially drow politics. _

Ryze shook his head. “You don’t understand us. You don’t understand the way we work.”

Arcedi’s lips curled in disgust. “It doesn’t have to be a power struggle, does it?”

“It does. For it is the Spider Queen’s desire for us to struggle, moon elf.”

Arcedi glared. “You’re making it more difficult than it needs to be.”

Ryze rounded on him suddenly. “The water of your mother’s womb might have birthed you drow, but the blood flowing through your heart is fae, moon elf. Go home. Most of us don’t have that luxury.”

A lump caught in Arcedi’s throat.  _ Home _ . He had never felt like he had belonged with the moon elves; it was why he had been gone so long. He had hoped to find belonging here, but was estranged even still. Did he belong anywhere? He swallowed and his lips curled in a sneer. He spat, “You expect me to say something like ‘you’re trash, go kill yourself’ or, ‘you look like a slug’ or something, but no. No, I think that there is so little about you to say or define that I can summarize you by saying that you’re banal and uninteresting. So uninteresting that you cannot even spark my creativity when it comes to insults, which in itself is a compliment. Go run back under the boot of the master you chose, Ryze.”

Arcedi turned on his heel. From the bar, Xaiviryn watched him go. Margarite slid a drink toward him. He reached for it and his fingers brushed hers, a small but comfortable gesture. She said, “It’s true then?”

He looked at her, but as if he didn’t really see her. He looked through her, rather than past her. “You’ve nothing to be concerned with, my dear. You will grow old and die before the one we’re discussing even reaches adulthood.”

Her heart-shaped lips curved into a dissatisfied frown. It was so hard to say if he were discussing some kind of dark prophecy or a new babe, or something longer lived. With one such as he, it could be someone closer to her own age. “You’ve a real way with words.” She turned, furiously reorganizing the bottles.

Xaiviryn sipped the gin and tonic. “I do.” He looked up as Ryze approached. He leaned against the bar, perhaps waiting to be acknowledged. “What were you talking to Arcedi about? I’ve never seen him so angry, so I feel I must congratulate you.”

Ryze snorted a laugh. “I told him to go home.”

Margarite looked up from the bottles. Xaiviryn stilled, then shrugged. “He is the only one I know who can go home. So perhaps he should.” Something unspoken passed between them.

Ryze began to say something, glanced at Margarite, then made a series of fast hand signals to Xaiviryn, who remained impassive throughout. He replied in Undercommon, that guttural dark language that sounded like an angry animal. Ryze grinned and said something that Xaiviryn glared at him for before he replied. Ryze’s grin widened.

She caught the name  _ Aestith _ , one she had heard several times before.

#

The Trial had been several turns past. Ondalia should have heard from Rix about what had happened, and she was irritated that she had not heard from them directly. One of the sisters had been spotted returning to the family home, but she had been alone--and it was not Haeltania.

Troubling, but perhaps the woman had stayed for a time to learn her duties from the high priestess. She tried to assure herself of this, but short of major events and news of battles or slain dragons, word traveled only slowly in the Underdark. She could, of course, use spells to contact Haeltania or Ter'resa directly, but it was insulting to have to crawl to them for this information.

Which is why when Amalette Rix requested an audience, she accepted.

The bard arrived perfectly on time, flanked by a contingent of guards that stayed outside. Her handmaiden followed her. Amalette bowed low and respectful to the priestess, but, quite subtly, not as low as she might have, if her family did not have a priestess.

Ondalia smiled at the gesture, and bade her guest to sit. “Tea or wine?”

Amalette sat like a flutist, poised to keep her throat clear and her spine straight. “I shan’t have need of either, I admit, for my time is limited.”

Ondalia’s perfectly plucked eyebrow rose a fraction. “Oh? To what occasion must you rush off to, more important than entertaining a priestess?”

Amalette gave her a winning smile. “If it’s entertainment you wish, I shall return at a later time. I am quite skilled at music.” A pause. “Though I have little time for such pleasantries at the moment. The Trial went… in a most unexpected manner, and I have other news.”

Ondalia sipped her lichen wine. “Please continue.”

“I will of course uphold my end of our bargain.” She sighed. “Haeltania failed the Trial. She was not chosen by Lolth.”

Ondalia set the goblet on a tray held by one of her slaves. “It was the boy?” She could not keep her incredulism from her tone. “A warlock then, pacted to yochlol?”

Amalette shrugged one shoulder. “Little Aestith prevailed in the Trial. If that is Lolth’s will, I must accept it, but High Priestess Ter'resa has assured me that he was a cleric, and from what she has told me, he was a cleric long before the Trial.” She sighed. “Now, he is a priestess.”

“ _ He _ ?”

Amalette shifted. “The situation is complicated, and difficult to understand. Aestith has a body similar to Corellon Larethian, and instead of hide his deformity, he chooses to flaunt it to his advantage.”

Her brow twitched in thought. “Is he female enough then?”

“I doubt that’s changed--I was present at his birth.” She paused to consider her next words. “I had assumed him dead until only a few cycles ago. It changes my family quite a bit.” She smiled politely, lips pressed together showing no teeth. “I will fetch him in time and meanwhile, make some adjustments to my own trade routes to accomodate your needs.” She tilted her head. “I would insist that my family be granted the prestige of a higher caste.” Her smile turned succulent. “Aestith is hardly completely male, and a priestess besides. There are ways to make him less male. I intend to make my claim soon.”

Ondalia sipped her wine. “The boy. Aestith. He owes me a favor from years ago.” Amalette frowned; Ondalia was pleased to see that it was the first she had heard of it. “Oh, I helped him with some matter when he was a child, but I’m afraid that I would need something more than what you are currently offering to support such a claim. I admit that your present claim is good, and you are not without means, Matron Rix, I merely suggest that you are reaching beyond your limit.” She smiled; Amalette was no mother. With her tastes, that was quite impossible.

Amalette was silent. Ondalia knew that their house could not afford two favors. She folded her hands in her lap. “Then I must request that you collect on this favor. What may I do for you, priestess?”

Ondalia’s painted lips curved into a satisfied smile. “It is simple, really. I request Aestith.”

Amalette’s spine straightened, stricken.

Ondalia continued, “He needs to be instructed in the church, and…” She let the wine aerate as she tilted the goblet. “It’s time I bore a daughter. I’d have him as a husband. Wed your family to mine, and we can combine our strengths. You would gain the prestige you seek.” She left unsaid that she would gain their allegiance and their assets, to say nothing of a priestess that was entirely under her control.

Amalette was quiet as she debated this possibility. “I agree. It is a wise decision for both of us.”

“Excellent. Do let me know where my husband-to-be has wandered off to.”

“I will locate him,” she assured her. She rose, bowed again, as low as was befitting this time, and left with her handmaid.


	33. Reunion

When Xaiviryn had let slip that he knew a drow paladin on the surface, Aestith had  hounded him relentlessly to send for him, but the paladin had split from Dark Carnival some years before Aestith had even come to the surface, and when a drow doesn’t want to be found, it can be problematic to find them again through mundane channels, but Xaiviryn was a wizard, and Aestith was insistent he use a Sending spell to tell the paladin of the Temple. The reply was a long time in coming, but the other had agreed to come.

Aestith was excited. He knew so little of Lolth and what rituals and ceremonies he had learned were from whatever someone had remembered or told him, divine revelation, or things someone else had written down. He needed this paladin.

Xaiviryn was less excited. Arcedi was only neutral on the subject, and thought that it would be a simple matter of religious instruction that would bore him to tears. Aestith wanted the paladin to stay, to teach others. He hoped the other would. Xaiviryn tried to pretend it didn’t bother him, but it clearly did. Aestith could tell that even from Xaiviryn’s letters and limited Sending messages.

Aestith waited in the shadow of a building, watching the ships in the harbor.

The paladin was the only drow stepping off a ship, smaller and thinner than the humans around him, and an afterthought behind the genasi sailor. The drow was like a shadow, ignored, and never looked at directly if one could help it.

It was said, below and above ground, that looking straight at a predator could cause it to spring. The drow, in nondescript clothing and wavy hair drawn back, was a predator. Like a spotted cat, he sought to blend in among the background as he hunted, but when his coppered eyes alighted on Aestith, it was as though his muscles coiled and Aestith almost expected him to leap.

He did not.

It would have been more exciting if he had, and they had both fallen, biting, scratching in a tangle of limbs.

His steps were light and measured with the easy grace that came from doing it by habit. If he were wearing full plate, he could have danced in it. His gaze raked over the mark on the cleric’s chest, and recognition dawned over his face. The bow he made was elaborate and formal, something from some centuries-old tradition of a paladin to a priestess that made the sailors on the docks stare and quickly move away in fear. A smile bloomed on Aestith’s lips, colored the shade of an aged amarone wine. Aestith gave a slight nod. “I must thank you for coming. I have long since desired to meet you, Evyxes.”

“And I you, priestess.” His voice was smooth as water over rocks. “I arrived expecting to teach a cleric, but instead I am to instruct a priestess. I must thank you for this honor.”

“It will be a pleasure, I have no doubt,” Aestith purred. His smile turned coy. “I must admit, I am young yet and ignorant in many ways of the subtle intricacies of the church. I will value your knowledge.”

He seemed pleased to hear it.

They spoke only in Undercommon, their voices low so they would not carry over the water. They moved away, falling into a comfortable gait as if they had known one another all their lives. Aestith suggested food and drink, after a long a voyage. He also offered that they could picnic at the temple, but it wasn’t completed as of yet. Evyxes said, “I do not see a need to hurry.”

“Let’s have dinner then.”

They took a carriage further north. What words broke the relaxed silence between them were exchanges of Evyxes’s recent travel.

The restaurant staff were nervous to have them both there, but the rules of social courtesy, and greed, allowed them inside. Aestith requested one of the curtained alcoves, and the maitre d was quick to usher them out of sight of the other diners. They would likely be the source of gossip for a tenday.

 Aestith ordered a wine as dark as the shade of his lips that day. The waiter poured it, doing his best to not show his nervousness. Both drow were polite to a point that only made the half-elf sweat.

“You’re from Enainsi,” Aestith said, a faint smile on his lips. He tasted the wine. “You left decades ago, before the Spellplague.”

“Did Xaiviryn tell you that?”

“No,” Aestith said flatly and looked at the glass. “You did.” His lips pressed into a smile. “Or your rather lovely face, anyway.” He set the glass upon the polished table. “Evyxes Everh’lylraeth. You’re Xaiviryn’s cousin, I wager. He might have mentioned that, but he didn’t. Why?”

His eyes flicked away. “I suppose… when a member of the family leaves in disgrace, such a thing is not worth mentioning.”

“It certainly explains why he took so long to put us in contact. I certainly could have used you sooner.”

“I think you’ve managed.”

Aestith made a face. “That’s not good enough, and you know it. I would have appreciated your expertise, and he withheld you from me. Tell me, if you had known, would you have come?”

He shrugged one shoulder and studied his wine. “Yes.”

The question hung in the air; why would he have kept them apart? Aestith looked at Evyxes, the way he looked back at Aestith, and he felt like he knew.

“Are you hungry?”

“I have other appetites.”

“You know I was born male.”

He smiled. It was bleak. “My late husband was a slave, Aestith. And my wife is a half-drow. You won’t bother me.”

Aestith drained the glass and left more on the table than the bottle was worth. He inclined his head toward the door. The closest inn sufficed. The expense hardly mattered. Aestith had a bottle of wine sent up, and a pitcher of water. They would need both.

“Tell my cousin to stay in Neverwinter,” Evyxes advised Aestith as he unbuckled his weapons and laid them on the sofa. “Why should a priestess be beholden to a wizard?”

“A powerful wizard and the leader of his faction?” Aestith’s lips quirked in a grin. “Aren’t you married?”

“It makes no difference.”

And Aestith represented more power, a deeper connection to Lolth and the church, a full-blooded drow. Evyxes had settled for his wife. “So you say.”

“I shall attempt to change your mind then.”

Evyxes was as similar to Xaiviryn in bed as lichen to lichen wine. Evyxes was somehow less creative; he seemed to hold back. He constantly surveyed the room and listened. He was quiet and obedient, and never kissed or touched unless Aestith did it first. Evyxes knew his place and accepted it; Xaiviryn defied it. Evyxes held back until Aestith told him he tired, and he worked himself in Aestith to completion, then moved away to pour Aestith wine, asked him if he wanted anything else. Aestith told him to lie down. He did.

“Your wife. One of Xaiviryn’s whores bore her, I take it?”

“Yes, I imagine so.”

Drow cared very little for cousins marrying. You were safest with your family, so it could in many ways be sensible, except that it did nothing to consolidate power and expand the family, and rather did the opposite. Couplings were common enough. That she was a half-drow was a larger inhibitor than possible blood. Aestith’s lips curled. “I suppose he has sired many half-drow.”

“The drought he gives his whores does not always take. Does it make you reconsider him?”

Aestith’s hand trailed down the other’s sweat-streaked chest. “No.”

The paladin swiped a stray lock of hair from his face. He slid from the bed and knelt, submissive, then looked up, never at Aestith’s face, but he had other things to draw his attention. “You are a priestess and beholden to none save Lolth, her handmaidens, and your fellows. Do not let yourself be beholden to my cousin.”

“What has he told you?”

“He wants your loyalty and you gladly gave it.”

Xaiviryn had told him more than that. Much more. The damned bastard. “If I were not lying with him, it would be another, but he is powerful, and that I find useful and attractive.”

Evyxes frowned. “Priestess, I would explain why you must leave him, if you’d listen.”

“I am listening.”

He sighed and nodded, then shifted to a more comfortable pose. “My husband knew I loved him, and when he learned I had every intention of only keeping him and not killing him, he used it against me. When he would have been sacrificed, I freed him and we both fled. It ruined my life and I became an outcast. I married him, because I was an idiot.” He sighed. “Do you think he stopped using me? Do you think he ever stopped? To end his manipulations, I killed him. You are in greater peril than you understand. You are giving him power over you, and I must caution you against it.”

“I am not so weak as to love him, Evyxes. What is he but a source of wealth and influence?” Even as the words passed Aestith’s lips, he could feel the sour tang of something like a lie.

Evyxes stared at Aestith. “It doesn’t matter when the end result is the same. He is using you, and you allow it because you want petty things like his wealth and the power and influence he wields. You are above that.”

“I want his resources. And I need the drow he keeps, like they need me. What would you have of me, Evyxes?”

“There are suggestions I could make.” His face was unreadable, which was itself all Aestith needed to know.

Aestith drained the cup and placed it on the table. He swung out of the bed. “We are wasting time, paladin. You came to instruct me.”

A pause. “As you say.” He followed Aestith to the bath, and combed the priestess’s hair as the water ran. He helped Aestith into the bath, and would have washed the other’s hair and back, and delicately dried him, but Aestith gently pulled him in after him, then laid against him. The wide copper tub was pleasantly cramped.

“You are unlike any priestess I’ve known.”

Aestith laughed. “Only physically? I am too young by most cleric’s standards, far too young to be a priestess. Too young to have my own temple, to have the kind of power that I do. I am a child, and born worthless, and still Lolth blessed me, and oh, how my sisters and the others in the church curl their lips with disgust and must swallow their rather bitter revulsion.” When Aestith spoke of their goddess, his features seemed to soften and glow, the way someone spoke when they were in love.

Evyxes understood, then, what inspired Lolth to heap rewards upon the young priestess; she coveted his unending and enduring devotion, a faith that had been tempered by hardships and trials and was not destined to break like iron but folded into the hardest steel. And he understood, too, why Xaiviryn wanted Aestith--why they all did, really; they needed him.

#

Aestith stalked around the temple, trying almost in vain to contain his glee. Arcedi kept pace with him, pleased just to see how happy Aestith was. They still needed a few things; Xaiviryn was working on the altar and some of the furniture still had not been delivered, but it was exactly what Aestith had hoped. The pair trotted down to the cellars and Aestith cast a spell, exchanged a few words, then they waited.

Evyxes tolerated Arcedi in increasingly small intervals, though both were cordial. He had his own errands to run and today, he was determined to find some mix of herbs and spices that would be similar to the sorts of incense such a temple should have. Aestith wished him the best of luck with the task, for Aestith had struggled with it for months and thought it would just have to be imported to get it right. The two had talked for a time, and came to the conclusion that there was really nothing in the doctrines that it had to be a specific blend.

Arcedi chatted freely, and Aestith was too pleased with the temple to be annoyed. To shut him up, Aestith suggested he play the viol, as it might aid Kai anyway. Arcedi removed the instrument from its case. Aestith had taken it to be repaired some time past, and the sound it produced was significantly improved. Nothing could be done to make Arcedi stand still, however, and he still danced as he played, which detracted from the sound.

The earth rumbled. Pieces of the unfinished dirt floor crumbled and chipped, then it fell inward, bits forming small mounds around the hole. A creature popped, briefly, out, then ducked back in. There was a long pause, then an exhausted-looking Kai clambered out of the tunnel. “I”ll set it to making stairs,” he murmured and swiped sweat from his brow. “Shit.” He leaned against the wall. A kamadan sprang from the hole. It briefly surveyed the surroundings, checked that Kai had not been stupid, and sat, waiting.

Aestith crossed his ankles. “You’re perfectly on time. The wizard I mentioned, however, is late, which is unfortunately what he is best at.” He scowled and looked at the floor. “Would someone do something about the dirt, please?”

Arcedi set the instrument down and used cantrips to smooth over the dirt. Aestith had done all but tell Honest Jack what the room was when he had stalled to keep the room from being finished as of yet. The floor would be installed tomorrow, and would include a trapdoor with a variety of locks.

“Am I really on the surface?” Kai said blearily.

Aestith scowled. “No, you’re still quite far underground, so you’ve nothing to fear.” He tilted his head. “You went with the umber hulk after all?”

Kai’s shoulders hunched. “You left me with the money for slaves, but buying them was harder than I anticipated in Skullport. So I did a lot of searching, and managed to get a spellscroll for Geas.” He flinched when Sailanshin’s snakes hissed. “After that, it was a matter of finding it. I paid mercenaries to keep it busy while I cast Tongues and then used the scroll.”

Aestith smiled. “I knew you were ingenuitive. That was very good thinking.”

He shrugged weakly. “I thought… If a scroll got me into this, then perhaps…” His voice trailed at Aestith’s raised brow. He squirmed.

Aestith sighed. “You have done quite well, Kai. I believe there may be some hope for you yet.”

“Do you think so?” It may have been sarcastic or earnest, but it was difficult to tell which.  
Aestith glanced back at him. “Yes. But, Kai?”  
“Hm?”

He made a face. “May I suggest that you abandon wizardry?”

Sailanshin groomed his whiskers. Kai’s face fell. “Being a swordsman with Sailanshin around--the real Sailanshin--is like being a vestigial arm.”  
Aestith nearly laughed at the imagery. He folded his arms under his breasts. “You could always stay here, Kai,” he said, voice gentle. “Make a pact with a yochlol. I’d allow you to serve in the temple.”

He flinched. “I can’t stay this close to the surface.” Aestith’s eyebrow arched. The last they had spoken, he had been pining over a particular wood elf. Apparently, that had ebbed. “Besides, I’m a noble. I can go home.”

Aestith nodded his understanding. “Very well. I’m not sure when the wizard will arrive, but could you keep your Umber Hulk on guard in the passage please, until we can get a more permanent solution? You can stay in the temple, or come with me into the city, but it would mean seeing the surface.”

Both declined the latter half, but agreed to stay in the temple. Aestith gave them the passwords to the glyphs anyway, and he and Arcedi left.

Aestith held the parasol over his head. He refused to wear a hat, but he found this to be an acceptable solution. “You were gone for a few cycles.”

A pause. “Yeah. Zelvier wanted me to find something.”

The priestess frowned. “Doesn’t he have minions for that?”  
Aracnelxeth laughed. “I was closer.”

When he didn’t immediately elaborate, Aestith’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What were you doing?”

He shrugged. “He just wanted me to steal something.” He flashed a grin. “Don’t worry about it.” He shaded his eyes from the sun. “What do you want from the temple?” Arcedi asked as they picked their way toward the main road.

Aestith frowned. He didn’t know how to explain that his main purpose was merely to serve Lolth and spread her influence. Xaiviryn or Evyxes would grasp the concept immediately, but Arcedi had never had the benefit of experiencing drow culture so didn’t, and likely couldn’t, understand. “It’s a testament to Lolth, first. But secondarily because…” He struggled. “When I came here, I was alone, everything was confusing and nothing made any sense. The instinct is to isolate oneself to shut out the culture shock, but then it never improves.” He was silent a moment. “I want to feel more at home.”

“You don’t think you can go home?”

He shook his head. “If I were welcome home, after Haeltania, I’m sure Amalette would have contacted me. But she never did.” He sighed, tilting his head up to look at the sky. “So this is where I have to be.”

A pause. “If she welcomed you home, would you go, Aestith?”

The priestess was silent for a long while as they walked. Aestith’s eyebrows knitted together. He would probably think it was a trap, after the last time. If he could have some kind of evidence that it wasn’t, and he could trust that he could go home, would he? They would probably claim him as some kind of cousin--he certainly had enough of those. And he’d have to spend his life pretending he were female, because what he was was imperfect and something to be hidden. He didn’t want to go back to that. He wanted to go home more than anything, but he didn’t know if the sacrifice of himself was worth it. “I don’t know.”

Arcedi tilted his head, watching Aestith’s expression. He sidestepped closer to Aestith and his fingers trailed down his arm and slid into Aestith’s palm. Aestith leaned his shoulder against Arcedi.

He was safe with Arcedi in a way he wasn’t with anyone else.

Arcedi removed a box from a pouch. It looked like something that Edajin would have made. He flipped the box open and a slow, haunting melody poured from it. Arcedi stopped and set it down, a hand still in Aestith’s. He flashed a grin. “Dance with me?”

Aestith felt heat rise to his face. “It’s been years since I’ve danced, Arcedi.”

“No one is watching.”

Aestith stepped into it, his uncertainty as he tried to remember the steps allowing the other to lead. Then, he gained confidence, and pulled Arcedi to follow, changing the steps. The other was momentarily thrown off--which would be considered bad form in Enainsi, and a good play on Aestith’s behalf. But they were a long way from there.

In Enainsi, learning to dance was expected. The footwork involved could be incorporated in a duel, and the social aspects provided a valuable lesson. It was also a way to select bed partners--or a way to get close enough for assassination.

Arcedi didn’t know the dances Aestith knew, but he was a good enough dancer that he picked it up quickly and fell, quite naturally, into the following position. Perhaps he didn’t know the power play for what it was, or perhaps he merely accepted it.

But it wasn’t a serious affair, was it? They already knew the position of power. Arcedi was not about to betray Aestith, so there was no underlying tension. Aestith moved into the unfamiliar territory of the dance--something just as intimate but less tense.

Aestith felt his mouth curve into a smile. His steps were light, and he realized--he was having fun. He almost laughed.

_ You have a duty to your family. Come home. _

Aestith missed a step. Arcedi stilled. “Aestith?”

He blinked and shook his head. “Amalette…” He looked over his shoulder, back at the temple. “My sister requested that I am to return home.”

Arcedi rolled his eyes and stepped to pick up the box. He snapped it closed and the music stopped. “How’d that work out for you last time?”

Getting to Skullport was easier now. He could have Arcedi come with him, and perhaps Kai and Sailanshin so he wasn’t alone. He could always use his boon and have a couple of giant spiders nearby as well. “I have more bargaining power this time, but you are right to be wary.”

Arcedi wove his fingers between Aesitth’s. “If you are considering it, do you still want to go home, Aestith?”

He flinched. “Yes. I’ve wanted nothing more for most of my life, than to just go home. But I can’t.” He shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts. “I doubt she’d try to kill me, at this point I’m too valuable a commodity, but even if my life were not on the line, there are other reasons.” He was quiet a moment. “I’d have to change my name, I imagine. Pretend I’m a woman.”

“Is that so terrible, when you’d have everything you ever wanted? You’d be back home, you’d be a priestess.”

Aestith glanced at the barley growing in the fields. “I’d be happier in the Underdark, and happier with my family. What is left of it. I’d be a priestess and have more power and influence than I’d ever imagined. But is it worth losing myself, when I’m a priestess here with my own temple?”

Arcedi’s grip on Aestith’s hand tightened. “You’re miserable here.”

“I know,” Aestith whispered.

Arcedi’s hand slipped from Aestith’s.

#

_ Priestess Ondalia has requested that you are to repay your debt to her. Come home. _

Aestith shivered. He could have ignored Amalette’s request, but this one left him sweating. He had never forgotten that he had owed the priestess for his life, that favors were a currency among drow. Ondalia inspired his views on his appearance and how he presented himself. Thoughts of her made him ache with longing. He didn’t know if he wanted to be her, or climb into bed with her, and probably both.

If Amalette knew about the favor, they were obviously talking. What did Ondalia want of him? It wasn’t like he couldn’t just ignore it. What could she do to him directly? Oh, she could make Amalette’s life hell, could potentially ruin his entire family if she wanted to--a merchant family refusing to return a favor for a priestess.

Aestith didn’t know why he should care. What did it matter to him what problems Amalette was in? She had set him up to die.

That was an unjust thought. To Amalette, Aestith was a surface runaway and an abomination worthy of death even if he weren’t male and disposable. Losing him was nothing to their family, and losing Haeltania had hurt. Ondalia had chosen now to redeem the favor, while his family was weakest. Amalette was put in a bad situation that was Aestith’s doing. If Aestith refused to go, he was condemning Amalette and single-handedly ruining his family.

Xaiviryn would not arrive for another several days.

_ I can be in Skullport tomorrow _ , Aestith replied.

A lie. He could be in Skullport today.

He rolled from the bed. “Arcedi. Get up. We’re going to Skullport.”

Arcedi groaned. “You’re shitting me. Aestith, this is idiotic. You can’t—”

“I told you about the favor system among drow. When I was a child, Priestess Ondalia saved my life. I owe her a favor. She is redeeming it now. If I don’t go, I condemn my family to ruin.”

“Who the fuck cares? Didn’t they try to kill you?”

Aestith sighed. Why didn’t Arcedi understand that it wasn’t personal? “Arcedi. I would consider you a lover and an ally for the moment, but my family are the ones most likely to help me should I need it.”

“They haven’t so far,” he said darkly.

Evyxes had slipped in from the hallway and leaned against the doorframe. He was beautiful naked, probably more pleasing to look at than Xaiviryn, for he was all hard muscle and the scars that marked his body only seemed to enhance him. They were marks received from fighting, from surviving. They had been earned and kept and Aestith liked to roll his hands down them. Xaiviryn was thinner and flawless--active and lightly muscled but a wizard, not a paladin. “You are naive, Arcedi.”

Aestith nodded his agreement. “Virabel tried to kill me for being an abomination, and for witnessing Jaalie’s death.” That one still stung, even years after. “Haeltania just wanted to be a priestess, and who could blame her? I certainly can’t expect to blame my family for sacrificing what they view as disposable for something that could grant them more power and status.”

Arcedi rubbed his temples. “Remind me again why this makes sense?”

“Get dressed.” He looked at Evyxes. “Will you go with me?”

He bowed his head, and lifted it smiling. “I’d go with you to the Demonweb Pits, priestess.”

Aestith felt warm just looking at him.

They took a carriage somewhere close to the temple and walked the rest of the way. They entered the small utilitarian building sitting on top of the entrance with a key and a password for the glyph. Another key opened the interior door and they shut it behind them. Another glyph and a set of stairs, down to the main floor. Aestith donned the circlet. They found Sailanshin asleep, sprawled out like a lazy cat. Kai looked up from a book and it snapped closed. “What are you doing?” he said.

Aestith paused. “Kai. I’m meeting my sister in Skullport.”

Kai stared at him flatly. “Because that went so well last time.”

“Shut up,” Aestith suggested.

Sailanshin growled and kept pace with Aestith as he marched down to the tunnel. The kamadan stepped in front of him, its big body blocking Aestith. Aestith gave an exasperated sigh. “I wish you could talk,” he muttered. The cat hissed. “I have to go.” Another hiss. “Xaiviryn will be here in a few days. He knows your situation. Just stay here and—”

Sailanshin rose on his hind legs, paws on Aestith’s shoulders. Aestith tried to push back, but he couldn’t have hoped to move a kamadan. With its weight bearing on him, it was either crumple to the floor or step back. Aestith stepped back and the cat fell forward.

Arcedi crossed his arms. “At least someone has enough sense to stop you.” He shot Evyxes a glare. “Hey, Kai, how important is repaying a favor?”

“Extremely,” Kai said blandly. “In the best case scenario, refusing to repay it will prevent merchants from wanting to sell to you. In the worst case—” He shrugged. “--death. Depends on who you owe the favor to. Aestith?”

Aestith glared at Sailanshin, but it was difficult to pick a set of eyes to glare at.

Arcedi said, “A priestess. On… Ondalia?”

Evyxes bristled at the name, and Aestith frowned. Kai and Sailanshin glanced at one another. Aestith rounded on Kai, teeth gritted. “What do you know?”

Kai flinched. “Aestith—”

“Tell me  _ now _ , Kai.”

Sailanshin backed a pace, head down. Kai squirmed, staring at the circlet. “Ondalia acted a liaison between your family and Matron Ter'resa.”

Aestith’s eyes narrowed. He had suspected as much when Kai had told him that Ondalia had sent the brothers with Aestith’s sisters. He should have pressed them for more information, but the issue of Sailanshin being a kamadan had been more important at the time. “Why?”

The snakes slithered into the kamadan’s fur. Somehow, he looked sheepish. Kai glanced at his brother, and back at Aestith, his eyes downcast. “Our family is pledged to Ondalia.” He shrugged. “Sailanshin and Haeltania have had a… tryst off and on for decades. It just fell naturally into place.”

“Innit?” Arcedi snorted. “You could’ve said so.”

Evyxes glowered. “What a strange turn of events.”  
Aestith rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t relevant at the time.” You couldn’t expect a drow to lay all of their cards on the table. One day, Arcedi might understand, but that was a long way off. “Well. Anything else you’d like to share?”

Kai’s lips pressed together.

“This changes nothing.”

Evyxes frowned. “Priestess, you owe a favor to Ondalia. Your family is already obligated to her house. Do you have any idea what she wants?”

“No.”

Sailanshin heaved a sigh and sat. Kai pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is incredibly stupid, Aestith.”

“Yes? Well, do you suppose if I let my family fail to return the favor that Amalette will let me live in peace, or do you think she’ll send an assassin?” He raised an eyebrow as he waited for Kai’s reply. When none was forthcoming, he nodded. “Right. So I have to at least hear them out.”

Sailanshin seemed to consider, then paced like a caged animal. He stopped and the snakes hissed, maybe in frustration at his inability to speak. Kai’s brow furrowed as he tried to piece together whatever Sailanshin wanted to say. The boy said, “Then I--then we--must go with you to protect you, priestess.”

Aestith paused. Something caught in his throat and he swallowed hard. “Then we had best hurry.”

#

The Flagon and the Dragon was quiet. It always was, but Aestith’s presence made many of the drow become scarce. What was left were paid off mercenaries, a few too stubborn or curious to leave, and Aestith. Arcedi was stationed outside, and Kai on the upper balcony. Evyxes sat at the bar. Sailanshin curled under the table at Aestith’s feet. Sometimes, a snake nudged one of his legs.

_ Spotted. On the way here, _ Arcedi said through the telepathic bond.

Sailanshin said,  _ How many? _ The spell was the only way he had been able to talk in a long time, and he seemed to be enjoying it.

_ One female drow, six guards. Looks a bit like Aestith. Gotta be her. _

Kai said,  _ Ready? _

Aestith took a breath and cast another spell, borrowing a page from Xaiviryn’s book. He stared at the half-empty cup in front of him.  _ No. But it’s time. _

The door opened. He couldn’t see it from the interior of the booth, but he could hear the hinges creak. Kai affirmed that it was them.

The bugbears interspersed through the bar, two climbing to the loft area, the others nearby. Someone looked from booth to booth, and stopped in front of Aestith’s.

If Disguise Self had been a concentration spell, Aestith would have lost it.

A steel bow peeked over one shoulder. The pale red curls bounced as she came to a halt. Her lips pulled into a sardonic grin. She sat down across from him and stretched. “You didn’t get me a drink.”

If it had been Amalette, Aestith would have said something snide. He stumbled over his words, and managed to spit out, “Virabel stabbed you. How did—?”

Jaalie smirked. “Oh. Gut wounds can take hours to die. You should know that. She never finished me off.” She tilted her head. “Descaronan said you’d changed.”

He suddenly felt ashamed of the spell making him look like a short-haired male drow, a dim reflection of himself from the last time she had seen him actually. “I did.” To the others, he said coldly,  _ Why didn’t you tell me Jaalie was still alive? _

Kai said,  _ It didn’t occur to me. _

Aestith made a mental note to have this discussion later. To his sister, Aestith continued, “Some changes are more apparent than others.”

She nodded, as if this was sensible. “A… a priest, then?”

He was silent, uncertain of how to respond to the question. “I ascended, yes.” His fingers clenched. Why was Amalette doing this to him?

A finger wound into a red curl. Jaalie smiled, as if no time at all had passed between them, as if the events 28 years ago that had expelled him from Enainsi had not come to pass. “Well, we have some catching up to do. What happened after Virabel died?”

His lips parted, and he wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to tell her about the Duergar, about how he had gotten lost, about how he had discovered he was a cleric, and about the guild, the brothel, the Trial. He wanted to tell her about the temple. Sailanshin’s weight bore down hard on his foot. The other said,  _ Detect magic. Now. _

Xaiviryn knew an Alter Self spell, and it wasn’t unreasonable to deduce someone else could use it as flagrantly as he did, so it could just as easily be Amalette, come to think of it. Or anyone else. Aestith blinked and whispered the spell as he lifted his cup. Her bow had some kind of enchantment on it, but it seemed to be her.

He leaned back in the seat. “I could ask the same. This has been eating at me for years--what was going on with the shipments? What lured Virabel out?”

“From what we can tell, she was impatient.” She sighed. “I should thank the bandits. She was selling us out to Innis.”

“What?”

She shrugged a shoulder. “If Rix pledged to Innis, Innis controls a monopoly on the drug trade. Virabel gets a high payout and a position of power in their family, and maybe in a few decades and with some careful planning and elimination, she can control both. It’s not a bad plan, if obviously short-sighted.” A pause, then she explained, “Her daughter talked. In time.”

“We have better business than Innis. She was matron of our family. That kind of gamble is idiotic.”

Jaalie sighed. “But the consolidation would eliminate the competition.”

Aestith lifted his cup and sipped. “And now?”

Jaalie made a face. “ _ Now _ , Innis has a daughter that will become a cleric. I believe Virabel may have suspected it long ago and threw in her lot with them then before they decided to decimate us. It was a survival tactic, at the time. And Haeltania, the only daughter in our family to be offered a similar chance, is dead. Which leaves you, Aestith.”

He snorted. “Well. Not a lot of good a male cleric is going to do for the family, is it?”

She stared at him flatly. “Drop this nonsense, Aes. Descaronan already told me about you.”

His eyes flicked to his cup. “Then you know that I still cannot go home and be a priestess.”

She tilted her head. “But you  _ can _ , Aes. Drop the male guise and put on a dress. Tuck your balls.” She shrugged. “Or cut them off. Hardly matters.”

His thighs tensed reflexively.

She continued as if she hadn’t noticed. “There are other options too, but it’s high time you returned home and performed your duties to our family. With you, we might be able to leverage for nobility, Aes.”

He crossed his legs. “I see very little personal gain in that arrangement.”

“Coming back home?” She propped an elbow on the table. “Think of the power you could wield at home, compared to--what, the surface?”

He was silent a moment. “I’ll be a priestess anywhere I go. That is inseparable from who I am, Jaalie.”

One white eyebrow arced. “Then perhaps I should remind you of your duties to Priestess Ondalia.”

He stilled. “What does the priestess wish of me?”

Jaalie’s smirk had never used to bother him. He had never cared that she was always a step ahead of him, or that she could regularly outwit him. It bothered him now. She said, “She has proposed marriage, Aestith. A union between priestesses. You’d be quite powerful together, wedded into a noble house.”

And his family would have climbed one more rung on the ladder to nobility. His stomach churned. He had been obsessed with Ondalia ever since he had seen her. To  _ marry _ her was beyond his wildest imaginations. And she had proposed to marry  _ him _ . He leaned forward, prepared to eagerly accept. Sailanshin’s claws dug into his leg, not enough to break the skin or tear clothing, but enough to feel how easily they could. Aestith stilled.

Sailanshin said,  _ Do you recall how casually she mentioned cutting off your balls earlier? Is that what you want? _

_ What’s going on? _ Evyxes demanded.

_ What the fuck? _ Arcedi said. 

Sailanshin explained to the others what had happened.

_ They’re going to fucking castrate you. Don’t, _ Arcedi said.

Kai countered,  _ But consider the power and prestige of two priestesses in a marriage, and should you sire a child first, how powerful she would be? _

_ Think of your temple. Think of the power you already wield here _ , Evyxes pressed.

It was getting noisy in his head, with all of them talking. He rubbed his temples. He said, “I’m confused. Why would Ondalia wish that as her favor?” He was only buying himself time; he knew perfectly well why. She had known from the moment he had lain eyes on her that he was enthralled by her. One priestess having such control over another was a pipedream, and she would gain power over Rix to boot. For him, it would be a nightmare. They’d wed him, he might be permitted to lie with her until she was pregnant, and then they would castrate him. It wasn’t even unlikely that they would just get another male to impregnate her and they would castrate him before the marriage.

Would that be so bad?

It wasn’t like he wouldn’t be able to have sex, but he had already told Lolth he didn’t wish to be fully female. Allowing this to happen now seemed like a slap to the goddess’s face. If that didn’t complicate things enough, he didn’t want to change like that. He wanted to stay as he was and damn the consequences. If it meant staying on the surface, it was a heavy price, but it was one he had to pay to be himself.

Jaalie went over the social and business aspects of the union while he tried to stall for time as he thought.

The paw on his leg moved away.  _ Do what Drow are known to do, Aestith Rix. _

Aestith looked back at Jaalie, and gave her the only answer he could.


End file.
